


The Tisroc and the King

by nasimwrites



Category: Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis
Genre: A somewhat grimmer future, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Archenland, Calormen, F/M, Implied Violence, Mentions of attempted suicide, Mentions of rape (nothing graphic)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-28
Updated: 2018-03-30
Packaged: 2018-04-17 12:28:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 95,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4666521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nasimwrites/pseuds/nasimwrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Something went very differently, and Cor and Aravis never met. As two enemy nations crown their new rulers and are faced with the threat of imminent war, Aravis and Cor find themselves dreaming of a mysterious boy and girl, and a life that could have been.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cofax](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cofax/gifts).



> This was written as a first chapter for a longer story, but can be read as a stand-alone. However, there WILL be some things left unexplained, and no Cor/Aravis interaction as of yet, which I will address in future chapters (I've already written a few more, but if added this would be less of a one-shot and more of an unfinished multi-chapter, which doesn't go with the Madness challenge). I hope you don't mind. I'm really into this AU and have a lot of plans for it.
> 
> Cofax, I'm sorry but Aravis did have to marry someone... it wasn't Ahoshta, though!
> 
> This story takes place some years after what would have been THHB. Given the grim nature of this AU, and the Calormen tradition of older men marrying minors, there will be a lot of heavy subjects discussed during this story, and a lot of implied violence (most of which occurs in the past, and is pretty sinister, often with implied rape). If that's not your cup of tea, I understand.

Aravis ran her fingers over her husband’s wrist, his skin hot and clammy, pulse ticking violently against her thumb. The room was dimly lit, only a few candles remaining—no one had wished to disturb him, and the physician had indicated that too many people at his bedside might only worsen his condition. Now it was only Aravis kneeling beside the mattress, legs folded beneath her as she held his hand in hers and looked down at his face.

His brow was covered with small beads of sweat which trickled into his hair, his sleep restless and feverish, and it had been many days since he had been lucid at all. The sores at his mouth, bloated and glistening with blood, opened with every movement of his lips, which murmured unintelligibly into the heavy air. Rabadash Tisroc was dying.

A damp rag lay close to her, but Aravis made no move to take it. Her husband’s hair was wet with sweat and she took acute pleasure in seeing him shift under the covers, alternating between cold shivers and overwhelming heat. His beard, once oiled and dyed with great care, now seemed ragged and dry against his bare chest.

Even as she watched him his breath hitched and his pulse sped up, and his eyes, halting the rolling motion beneath his eyelids, snapped open and met hers in reddened fury. She glanced at the door beyond; his chamber walls were of thick stone, the carpets and richly embroidered tapestries stifling all sound, and the slaves outside the threshold were deaf and mute—she had taken care to ensure it.

“ _Viper_ ,” he rasped with great effort, reaching out to raise himself from the bed. She tightened her grasp on his wrist—she must take care not to dig her nails into his flesh, lest the physician see the marks later—and did not allow him to rise. He was easily overpowered, weak as he was, but his eyes flashed with fury. “False, black-hearted daughter of a dog! Bring me the Vizier!”

“O my husband,” she murmured, stroking his wrist even as he lay restrained by his own weakness. “Your delusions have reached their peak, and I fear you near your end.”

“Bring… me… the Vizier…” he panted viciously, thrashing about within the confinement of the sheets. “I have orders to give him. The first of which,” he paused and groaned, pain overtaking him momentarily. “The first of which will be to execute you… pelt you with stones… until…”

Aravis smiled. “But husband, you have forgotten yourself. For it is night time now, and none lie awake. It has been near a fortnight since you first fell ill, and whilst your wives languished about your bedside on the first week, time does breed forgetfulness, and we are all now weary of watching you die.”

Rabadash did not have the strength to shout, and she watched him struggle with his voice, sweat trickling down his temples. His hand shook helplessly below hers. “You have murdered me,” he said, fear spreading through his features. “You have murdered me!”

Her smile was fierce, and she leaned closer to his face as he trembled beneath her, still holding down his arm. “You have murdered yourself,” she said. “You chose your own poison—now comes the wrath of the gods. Let them have their ransom for your devilry.”

“I am the Tisroc,” he said shakily. “Tash the Almighty stands at my side—he reaches out to clutch your throat—for your betrayal— _bring me the Vizier!_ ”

“Sleep now, Tisroc,” she murmured and let go of his hand, which flapped weakly against the mattress and was still. He was fading, and had no strength even to struggle anymore. Her smile disappeared as she tasted bitterness on her tongue; it had been three years of repulsion and fear, but now her prayers were being answered. She wiped her hand against the coverlet to rid herself of the filth of his sweat. “May you live forever.”

…

_There was a boy with golden hair who lived by a creek of the sea, and he was a fisherman. His father wore dirty tunics and had a habit of boxing the boy’s ears when things did not go his way, and so the boy learned early in life to remain silent and not venture too far from the house._

_But sometimes, as the boy sat outside the shack he called his home, he seemed to look up at the hills towards the North, a deep spark of curiosity igniting within him at what lay beyond._

…

Cor awoke slowly, and experienced the strange, confusing disorientation that comes with having too vivid a dream. For a moment, it had seemed to him that he ought to be sleeping on a bed of hay in a hut, dressed in little more than rags in stiflingly hot climate. Instead, he was covered with two thick blankets and surrounded by the cold air of a stone castle, his eyes looking up at the artfully carved wood of the bed's canopy. Small rays of sunlight filtered through the curtains and Cor turned slowly, his muscles feeling immeasurably heavy, to see a figure lying on the floor.

The memories came rushing back to him and he slumped against the pillows again, grief heavy on his heart. It was only some seconds of weakness in which his realization produced a few tears, but it was soon accompanied by the steel grip of his will, which smothered his sadness and prompted him to look down at the floor again.

It had been years since he and Corin had shared a room, though they would have very much liked to do so their entire adolescence; the court had deemed it unsafe to put the two princes beside one another, where any catastrophe might harm them both. Cor also suspected that his father had been concerned that their mischief would only be heightened if they lived in such close quarters. Either way, the room now had only one bed, and while Cor knew that the servants would be more than willing to provide Corin with a bed in which to lie, rather than the cold floor and a pair of blankets, he also knew that Corin was much too proud to admit that he was sharing a room with his twin because he couldn't bear to sleep alone.

Cor had grown used to it over the last fortnight, even relieved that Corin had appeared sometime past midnight on the first night looking haggard and grief-stricken. He himself had suffered in the darkness, struggling with nightmares too exhausting to battle. So now they awoke each morning in this manner, with Corin curled up on the floor, rising before the servants came to see them—though they hardly did it nowadays, allowing them space, saying they needed rest.

Corin's eyes were already open, only slightly red as he stared at some distant point on the floor.

"I had such a vivid dream," Cor remarked slowly, rubbing his eyes with a groan. "I've never dreamed quite as vividly."

"Lucky you," Corin grumbled. "I've hardly slept a wink."

Cor sat up, blinking slowly. "What time is it?"

"Time to get up, most likely," said Corin, and slowly got to his feet, leaning down to bunch up his blankets and toss them under Cor's bed. He met his brother's gaze. "You all right?"

Cor swallowed and nodded. He wanted to ask the same of Corin, but knew there was no point to it. Either way, he appreciated the gesture—he would need his support; things would soon become very complicated. "Yeah," he muttered. "I'll go soon; I just have to go over Darrin's instructions one more time."

With a nod, his brother left the room, feet quiet in the corridor outside. Normally the castle at this time of day would have been full of barely muffled movement, as the servants discussed tasks and gossipped about the morning’s news. But a lot had changed since the King had died.

He dressed himself and left the room, making for the Council Hall. He could have his breakfast there, though he had very little appetite. Still, he knew Darrin would make him eat, and had little energy to argue.

King Lune had passed a fortnight ago, murdered violently in Calormen's treacherous attempt to take Anvard. No one had expected such deceit—though looking back, Cor thought bitterly that they ought to have kept better watch, knowing that Rabadash was more impulsive and violent than his father. Already there had been rumors that he had meant to attack them the year before, as a preliminary conquest to his intended ransacking of Narnia, but Adeben Tisroc had not permitted it, knowing that Calormen’s forces could not withstand the combined armies of the Four and King Lune—especially when the motive was merely spite out of being denied the Queen Susan's hand in marriage.

They had not been prepared, and so had barely managed to fend off the new Tisroc's army. Rabadash had been rash in thinking his two hundred horse might overthrow Anvard—but he had succeeded in driving a scimitar through King Lune's heart before he was forced to retreat to his own borders. There had been no sense in sending what was left of the hastily assembled force of Archenland to the Calormene desert after the traitors; it would have proven a much greater tragedy, and as such they had merely drawn their host closer within Anvard, and set close watch on the borders. Narnia could not come to aid; the Four had been lost, and the thrones in Cair Paravel sat empty.

Lord Darrin pushed the tray of food closer to Cor after the servants had deposited it on the table. "Please eat, Sire."

Cor made a face and tried to find some joy in the meal; it tasted dry and bland in his mouth, but he supposed it was only his mind that rejected it.

"Do you feel correctly informed of the procedures today? I can go through them again—it is much to remember."

"There’s no need. They have been running through my head for days."

Darrin nodded, his grey eyes still looking rather concerned, but he said nothing more as Cor finished his breakfast. In the absence of King Lune, Darrin had been Cor and Corin's chief assistant when it came to navigating the complicated waters of repairs, funerals and coronations. The twins had been too young when the Queen had died, but Darrin had already been a Lord and member of the Council at the time, and knew much of the tasks that lay ahead. Cor was appreciative of it; his title as Heir was already much to be anxious about without adding the ever present frustration of not knowing the ways of tradition.

When Cor was finished eating, he could already hear the noise of a multitude gathering beyond the walls of the castle. He rose and was followed closely by Darrin as he made his way out of the room and towards the large double doors that led outside. Many courtiers had already assembled just before the door, and on the raised dais at the top of a small flight of steps men dressed in the colors of the Guard awaited somberly, heads downcast, flanking a gilded casket.

Cor left Darrin and slowly made his way up the steps, passing between the Guard and moving to stand beside the casket. It was open; it would not be closed until both the King Lune’s sons had gazed upon his face one last time.

In the Fortnight of Mourning, which was traditional to Archenland, the casket had lain open for all to come pay their respects. The artisans of Anvard, skilled in preserving the Kings’ earthly bodies, had tended to King Lune and dressed him in the richest clothing, sword-hilt set between his hands and golden circlet above his closed eyes. He looked as if he had merely fallen into a deep sleep—yet his skin was pale and grey-toned, the cares life had placed upon his body finally evident; he looked old, much older than he had ever looked in life, and Cor had spent the last two weeks avoiding seeing his father again for that very reason—he was hardly recognizable without a warm smile on his lips.

Cor drew a deep breath and stepped away from the casket, trying to swallow down the knot that had fixed itself in his throat. He could hear the multitude outside, quiet yet shuffling against the stone floor. Suddenly feeling his heart racing, he reached up to wipe the sweat that had broken around his temple, feeling choked and constricted by the heavy velvet cape that was draped around his shoulders and the sword that hung at his side—he tried not to think of the last time he had used that sword, when he and Corin had both been too occupied fending off the assault of a group of Tarkaans to run to their father’s side when he had needed them the most.

But there was no time to think; the doors were now slowly swinging open, and Cor saw that Corin had arrived before he had, dressed in formal clothes and having already paid his respects to their father. The Guard pulled the cover over the casket, swiftly nailing it closed with a few sharp knocks of hammer against wood, and then King Lune’s body was being borne on the shoulders of six men, their eyes grave as they followed behind the Princes in the march towards the tombs.

The tombs lay upon a small green hill on the outskirts of Anvard, with mounds of stones marking the graves of the Kings. Fifteen mounds formed two circles, surrounding the central largest mound: King Col the Builder, first King of Archenland. There was a gap in the outer circle, where already the men of the city had dug the space in which King Lune would be laid to rest beside his forefathers. It was a strange thought for Cor to know that when _he_ passed, his remains would begin a third circle for the dead.

The people of Anvard followed them, and so did many from neighboring villages, Lords and Ladies and common people, for the King had loved many and been loved in returned. The people held ribbons in their hands, limp and lifeless, and many went arm-in-arm as they walked, climbing the small hill and gathering on the outskirts of the mounds.

Then a minstrel began a low, wordless chant, and the Guard’s slow walk led them to the edge of the grave. As they lowered the casket into the ground, Cor could not bring himself to look up at the crowd that stood all around him. He knew that King Lune was only the last to be buried of all those who had died in the Battle of Anvard, and knew that this funeral was, in a way, a funeral for all those who died unjustly. As the flag of Archenland was lowered in ceremony, and he and Corin seized the first of the grey rocks that had been piled about them, brought from the Winding Arrow over the last few days and meant solely to shroud the King’s tomb, Cor could hear the weeping of the people and could not help weeping himself, clumsy as his tears made him. He knew Corin was doing the same. Before them, slowly, their father was blanketed in darkness and held by the earth.

“May you now feel the warmth of the Lion’s breath,” Cor breathed through trembling lips as he knelt before the grave. The Guard moved the burial, and he and Corin stepped back to allow the mound to be built.

Cor glanced at his twin’s expression as the ceremony came to a close. There were tears lining Corin’s cheeks; Cor knew that while his father had always been close to both of them, there was a certain despair to Corin’s grief. While Cor had known his father’s intentions for the country and the weight of the crown he bore better than anyone, and had been prepared from the moment of his birth for the moment in which he would have to replace him, it had not been so for Corin. Corin had always been the less prudent of the two, prone to impulsive decisions and choosing fancy over obligation; characteristics which had amused King Lune. But Cor suspected that Corin had hardly ever given thought to the idea that their father would one day die—and the shock of his death had come as a heavy blow to him.

The crowd seemed to draw a breath as the Guard stepped back from the mound. The Fortnight of Mourning was now over, and King Lune had been laid to rest. Along with his remains, so must their grief be left behind, and while the banner of Archenland was not yet lifted, the air of sadness shifted to that of slowly rising anticipation. Cor could not escape his duties any longer.

Stepping forwards, he walked in a straight line through the crowd, his subjects moving quickly to give way. Behind him came Corin, and the standard-bearer, and the Lords of the Council, and then the Guard. The time of sadness was past; now came the time to crown the new King.

They left the hill behind and crossed the gates of Anvard. The sun was now high in the sky, approaching midday, and its towers of red-brown stone gleamed, blinding in the sunlight. Cor breathed deeply and tried to rid his mind of the thoughts that had occupied it for so long since the battle; now began a new day, and he had much to remember.

Upon crossing the threshold of Anvard, he halted and touched his palm to the stone floor, face upturned to the heavens, as it was said that Col did when he first entered the finished city. When he reached the castle, he stood upon the steps and the people stopped before him. Now they bore the ribbons in the air, sadness shifting into celebration, their eyes expectant and joyful as he stretched his arms in greeting. “ _Come forth, people of the North, for here we shall build our kingdom._ ”

The castle doors opened, and the people crowded in, escorted carefully by guards, and the Lords of Archenland stood at the bottom of the raised dais, where the throne King Lune had occupied all of Cor’s life sat empty, and the golden crown he had worn lay on the cushion of silken red. And when the room had been filled, and the Lords of Archenland stood tall and silent, and the standard-bearer small and quiet behind them; then Cor met Corin’s eyes, for he could not bear to look into the expectant ones of anyone else, and his brother gave a short nod, his mouth a thin, grim line.

Cor lifted the crown to his head and bowed before the people, and as the Lords knelt and the Archenlanders followed suit, the standard-bearer hoisted up the banner of the nation high above the heads of all, and a cry rose up.

“ _Long live the King!_ ”

… 

“He is dead.”

The physician’s words seemed to be swallowed by the silence in the room, and as the man spoke, Aravis did as the other wives and prostrated on the ground in the direction of Rabadash Tisroc’s unmoving body. A sheet had been drawn over him, and two of the women sobbed, their faces hidden by their veils.

Behind them, seven men in large white turbans prostrated as well, bowing once before returning to their feet and exchanging looks. Aravis saw them over her shoulder, her hands clenched into fists against the rich carpet. Nearby, three men seemed to shift uncomfortably, their eyes moving from the late Tisroc’s body to the seven men. They had also bowed, but the movements had been stiff, and their minds were occupied with too much to pay etiquette much attention. Aravis’ gaze lingered particularly on one—a man with a black beard, only the tips dyed crimson; his sharp eyes met hers for a moment before he looked away.

Aravis returned her forehead to the carpets and spoke, loud enough for the others to hear, yet low enough to be reverent: “On him be the peace of the gods.”

“So short was his reign—yet so noble his sword!” exclaimed Zoshrud Tashkhad, one of the priests of Tash, his eyes expressionless. “For he rid us of the Northern enemy’s King, a victory dearly earned, and nearly on the very eve of Midsummer.” He turned to the three Tarkaans. “Vizier, messages must be relayed to Azim Balda; this duty is one of your last, lest the new Tisroc (may he live forever) wishes your company.” The Vizier, a thin, weak man, hurried off and disappeared through the open door beyond. Zoshrud returned to the two who remained. “And here are Ishamiel and Avar, I see—yet Ishaq is not among us. Send a slave to fetch him.” He shook his head and waved a hand towards Rabadash’s wives. “The women must leave us; there is much to do.”

Aravis rose with the other three, meeting Badrih’s eyes as she did so. The woman reached out and gave her hand a gentle squeeze. Durriya was the first to leave the room, head bowed, her tears halted. She went to seek her child. The youngest of the four wives, Aya, leaned heavily on Badrih’s arm as they left the sickly air of the room and emerged into the richly furnished corridor.

“You should lie down, sweet girl,” Badrih murmured to the girl. She herself was the eldest of the four, and had been Rabadash’s first wife. Heavy cares lay on her face; she had been older than Rabadash when he married her, and had aged swiftly during their years together. In later years, Rabadash had striven to forget her existence, unless it came to relations between Tashbaan and the Tarkaans of Zalindreh, Badrih’s kin. Aravis suspected that his neglect had been a welcome change.

Aya shivered, wide eyes glancing back at the room where the Tashkhid remained. Servants were already flocking towards it; they would bear away the Tisroc’s body. “I did not think he would pass so soon—what is to become of us?”

She was even younger than Aravis had been when she was married, and had still been a favourite plaything to Rabadash—a novelty he enjoyed exploiting. Aravis frowned as they turned towards the Women’s Wing. “Perhaps Ishaq Tarkaan will take you as his bride; you are young and beautiful, and he has but one wife of his own.”

They now pulled their veils off, for they approached their quarters. The corridor opened into a large archway and a pool of clear water lay in the middle of the room over colorful mosaics. Windows of stained glass allowed a view of the gardens of the Tisroc’s palace, and the carpets were woven with designs of various flowers. The room branched off into diverse corridors and rooms, belonging to the Tisroc’s four wives and their chosen ladies in waiting.

Aya wrinkled her nose. “Ishaq Tarkaan’s mind is slow, and he only has eyes for wine.”

“Which would be a pleasant change,” Aravis muttered. Around them, servants stood nervously, approaching them to change their frock and clear them from the heavy air of sickness, and likely hoping to hear news of the Tisroc. Aravis said nothing—they would learn the truth soon enough. Instead she turned towards her own quarters, knowing that Aini, the young slave-girl, had already done her bidding.

Lasaraleen Tarkheena reclined upon a low couch, surrounded by white curtains and eating dates from a low dish before her. Aravis had called for her near the hour of dawn, knowing that Lasaraleen would not resist being invited to the palace at such an important time, to visit the Khasik Tisroc—the Tisroc’s primary consort, the wife of greatest power.

Lasaraleen straightened quickly when Aravis appeared, eyes wide. “Is he well?”

Aravis glanced at the door. No one else was near, and Badrih and Aya had already moved towards their own rooms. She shook her head. “He is dead.”

“ _No_.” Lasaraleen shook her head in distress, reaching up as if to clutch her heart. “Our beloved Tisroc! On him be the peace of the gods.”

“Oh, be quiet,” Aravis snapped. “You know well that his death was a welcome blessing.”

“Don’t say such things!” Lasaraleen hissed immediately, reaching out to pull Aravis down to sit beside her. “They may yet say things about _you_ , and such words could seal your fate with death.”

“What are you saying?”

“It is known that in his private hours Rabadash called you his _Viper_ —and that though he valued Calavar too much to speak of it openly, the name strayed often from playfulness to insult.” Lasaraleen looked uncomfortable, as if she feared overstepping some boundary. Her voice dropped even lower into a whisper. “And after what happened to Ahoshta—”

“What are they saying, Lasaraleen? That I am a witch?”

Lasaraleen wrung her hands, concern etched onto her face. “Not _yet_ , but you are now widowed, and have nearly been so before, and people will talk. Already his sickness has been attributed to a curse.”

“I know well what his sickness stemmed from, and it was no curse,” Aravis said with a scowl of revulsion. “One can only frequent the hovels of the degenerate so often before catching some unsightly disease—and my husband took himself to the common brothels often.”

“But the Tashkhid will not acknowledge it. They will seek another to accuse.”

Aravis frowned, crossing her legs beneath her and hugging a cushion much as she had done when she was a child, living with her father and small brother in Calavar, far removed from the horrors of Tashbaan. In her mind’s eye she saw Rabadash again, writhing in bed, mouth bleeding painfully, the scimitar he had borne with such ferociousness to battle lying limp beside his bed, his body robbed of its victory. Her lips curved coldly. Lasaraleen could concern herself with Aravis’ fate, but Aravis had little fear for her own life—she was already more alive than she had been in a long time.

. 

When Aravis awoke the next day, amidst the hurried yet muffled footsteps of the servants outside her door, she had to take a moment to clear her head. She had had a dream, more vivid than any dream she remembered having, and the face of a young boy with golden hair remained etched into her mind’s eye as if she had known him—but she did not. She had never seen him; she knew she would have remembered if she had. And neither had she ever seen the old hut by a creek in which, she knew from her dream, the boy lived.

It was strange.

Aini pushed the door open softly, curtsying immediately when she realized that her mistress was awake. She was a small, thin girl, approaching her thirteenth year of age. Aravis knew that Aini feared her slightly; the tales that had run about the palace of the sharpness of her tongue had not done her any favors, but she had tried her best to treat the girl with kindness, if only because there were scarce children like Aini in the Tisroc’s court—either they were the Princes’ spoiled children, or street urchins intent on stealing some precious jewel or other. After leaving Calavar, Aravis had not encountered children like her younger brother, sweet and playful. Aini was a breath of fresh air.

“How much longer?” she inquired, sitting up and running her fingers through her tousled hair. The city outside was unusually quiet; even though the Women’s Wing faced the gardens and was removed from the streets of Tashbaan, they often still heard the sounds from the market and the cries of the heralds.

“Khasik Tarkheena,” Aini said in a low voice, curtsying again at the foot of the bed. “The Tarkaans are assembling in the Hall of Pillars, and the streets are being swept for the procession.”

“We must hurry then,” Aravis said, and rose to undress. Normally, the Tisroc’s funeral would have waited longer, until all the Princes and Tarkaans of various provinces were in Tashbaan and could attend. But the proximity of Rabadash’s death to the Midsummer Offering—when Calormen was called upon by the gods to offer up fractions of its spoils to ensure the retaining of wealth and prosperity—had precipitated the process, and the Tashkhid had hurriedly arranged for it to take place the very day after the Tisroc’s passing. Then, before the Temple of Tash and the eyes of all Tashbaan, the new Tisroc would pledge his soul to Tash and take the rule of the Empire.

The servants entered the room shortly afterwards and led Aravis to a pool in an adjacent room, where she was bathed with oils and salts until her dark skin glowed and her hair seemed to shimmer. They then dressed her in a long red robe and veil, soft red slippers and only one thin bangle on her arm, marking her as Khasik Tarkheena; she would retain the title until the next Tisroc chose a favorite among his wives.

As they covered her hair and attached her veil, Aravis fingered the bangle on her arm and thought bitterly of the first time Badrih had branded her with the cold golden metal. She had often cursed her father for pleading such a boon of Adeben Tisroc after Ahoshta Tarkaan’s untimely death, and Adeben for granting it. It had taken Rabadash some time to realize that she was not a plaything for him to trifle with.

She was escorted out of her quarters once the preparations were finished, leaving the Women’s Wing and descending into the lower courtyard, and she paid little heed to the servants who glanced at her edgewise. She wondered how much of Lasaraleen’s words rang true—how many of these suspected her of having a hand in Rabadash’s demise. Under the cover of the veil, her expression was well hidden, and she kept her eyes impassive; though they might expect her to weep at the passing of her husband, she had not the patience to indulge them.

At the edge of the colonnade she found Badrih, Durriya and Aya, all dressed as she was, but devoid of any jewelry. Only Aravis’ arm glimmered with gold, and she knew Durriya’s eyes glanced at it in envy—or anticipation, perhaps. The high rank Durriya coveted was now near her reach, or at least it might be, once her infant child—Rabadash’s sole blood heir—reached the age of maturity.

Saying nothing, for there were more servants there than those in their confidence, and all knew the Tashkhid and Tarkaans often kept spies within the court, they set off on foot until they reached the Hall of Pillars, where a great assembly of men awaited, clad in shining armor and turbans of many colors. They turned towards the four women as they approached, eyes downcast in respect and mourning, but Aravis knew that many of them glanced at their bodies with pleasure, for stories said that no women were as fair as the wives of the Tisroc.

The Tashkhid were at the forefront of the procession, and they stood about like large mountains dressed in white against the black marble of the Hall beyond them, muttering to each other beneath the arches. Outside, the stable boys were bringing forth Tashbaan’s fairest horses. Aravis watched the Tashkhid from afar as she and the other women joined the assembly; Zoshrud’s greying beard and gold-tipped turban were visible above the rest.

“Khasik,” a voice murmured at her side, and Aravis started. Turning, she saw Ishamiel Tarkaan standing beside a pillar, his eyes averted. It was not proper for him to be found speaking to his brother’s widow—for he was a Prince, sixth in line after Rabadash. But they had wished to speak since the night before, and it was not likely that they would get another chance until  day drew to an end. “Do you plan to continue with this madness?”

“I did not ask your opinion, Ishamiel, when I confided in you,” Aravis said, thankful that no one could see her lips move beneath the red veil. “Is Ishaq present?”

“They dragged him in yesterday, but could not get a coherent word out of his lips. He was not in his quarters this morning.” He ran his eyes over the crowd, at the Tarkaans who murmured among each other in the maze of pillars. “Doubtless he has taken to wine after they released him.”

Aravis turned away from him in pretense to be looking at the other women. Badrih was yet again comforting Aya, and Durriya had disappeared from view. No one was watching. “And do the Tashkhid know this?”

Ishamiel’s dark eyes glanced at her, grave and piercing. “No. I took it upon myself to inform them of his absence, which I have not done. Khalid is also missing; he will not reach Tashbaan today.”

Aravis breathed a sigh of satisfaction. “Thank you.”

“To attempt this is to play with fire, Khasik,” he muttered, and she knew he was displeased with his own decision. “I cannot protect you when you fail.”

“I will not,” she replied, and turning away from him, joined Badrih and Aya.

Finally the horses were readied, and the golden chariot, strewn about with rose and jasmine, was readied below the largest archway in the Hall of Black Marble. Aravis and the other wives went first, passing through pillars until their slippers touched the dark stone, and they came to stand beside the chariot, heads bowed. Six slaves moved forwards, bearing a heavy weight—the Tisroc’s body, wrapped in linens. He was placed over the flowers, to be escorted by his wives in his last journey to the Temple of Tash.

They set out on foot, and Aravis bowed her head even lower as she felt the heat of the midmorning sun hit her. The marble tiles of the road outside, which led out the gates and into Tashbaan itself, seemed to burn straight through her slippers—Tarkheenas’ shoes were not made for the hot streets of the city.

Directly behind them came the Tashkhid; Aravis felt as if their eyes bored into her back as she walked. After the Tashkhid came the Tarkaans, first the Princes and then the Cousins, and after that the men of lesser blood who had won the Tisroc’s favor. Many Tarkaans were not present; her father and those of other provinces too far removed from the Capital would not be able to attend. She wondered, briefly, if her father thought she would return to Calavar once Rabadash was buried—or perhaps he hoped that Ishaq would desire her as well, and keep their family in favor by taking Aravis as his wife.

Soldiers lined the wide, winding stone street that led up to the Temple. Slaves and commoners had spent all night and day sweeping the road so that the feet of royalty might touch it, and the Tarkheenas might have no need of litters. The citizens of Tashbaan crowded behind the armored shoulders of the soldiers, gazing at the faces of the wealthy and powerful with wonder, for it was not often that they could witness such a procession. It was a welcome spectacle for many, to have had two funerals take place in such quick succession—first Adeben Tisroc, scarcely a month since, and now Rabadash Tisroc. Yet Aravis saw also that many seemed fearful as they glanced at the Tisroc’s body. She wondered how far the tale of the curse had truly travelled.

They soon reached the Temple of Tash, its glittering dome of blue-green shining in the sunlight. The day was nearing noon, and as they crossed the archways into the large, echoing hall where Tash Himself, the Inexorable, towered, beak upraised to the heavens, sunlight shining through his mouth and into the space between his ribs as it entered the dome through a skylight and shot through the statue’s body. Around his clawed feet were piles of kindling, baskets of various fruits and vegetables, dead lambs and calves set upon them and surrounded by incense; all were sacrifices collected by the people of Calormen in anticipation of the Midsummer Offering. And before them all, directly in line with Tash’s mighty head, a large pyre had been raised, upon which the slaves soon carried Rabadash Tisroc.

The wives stood close together at the front of the mass of men, and did not look up as Zoshrud Tashkhad, accompanied by two other Tashkhid, stepped forwards with hands raised to Tash and the light that came from within him.

“O Tash, the Irresistible, the Inexorable!” he cried. “Known are your many blessings, showered upon the people of this land in generosity—for it was through your hand that our fathers first set foot upon this earth, and watched it flourish beneath their feet. Yet known now, also, are the violent tests you send upon us; for on the very eve of our venerable Tisroc’s return (on whom be the peace of the gods) from his glorious enterprise in the barbaric North, he fell ill and passed but a fortnight after, and in the arms of Tash he shall rise in victorious fire, a privilege gifted to those of the line of the gods. To you we offer our victorious leader, as the sacrifice you have claimed; well is it with he that joins you! And before your almighty feet we shall name your new servant.”

At a sign from Zoshrud, six slaves ran up with torches in hand. One by one, they set the kindling aflame, and the scent of incense filled the Temple, sweet and slightly sickening. Aravis watched as the linen that wrapped Rabadash’s body suddenly crawled with orange flame, and felt a deep, penetrating satisfaction at the sight, her heart racing as she turned to where Ishamiel Tarkaan stood.

He was already watching her. They shared a look before Aravis reached up, tore off the red veil and stepped forwards until she stood directly before her husband’s burning body. The smell of burning flesh reached her nose, too strong in such proximity to be masked by incense, and she had to quell her rolling stomach as she looked up at Tash’s powerful arms and face.

“What devilry is this?” cried one of the Tashkhid suddenly, the spell of surprise broken. “For shame, Khasik Tarkheena—you stand before Tash Himself, and dare expose yourself so!”

“I do,” she said, her voice shaking as she turned to face the crowd. Her movements had been unexpected, and none dared step towards her to stop her; only the Tashkhid stood close at hand, and though infuriated, they did not seem to know what to do. “For I have a claim of my own to lie at his mighty feet.”

“He takes no more claims, but for that of the throne,” Zoshrud Tashkhad said, voice sharp and menacing. “And that is one reserved for the Crown Prince.”

“Yet he is not here,” Aravis said smoothly, looking around the crowd. “Where is Ishaq Tarkaan, Crown Prince after my husband (on whom be the peace of the gods)? Is he here to lay his claim, or does he stagger still in his hovel like a common wretch, unfit to even speak the name of Tash, the Irrevocable?”

There was silence, but for the crackling of the fire at Aravis’ back. She could feel the warmth of it burning against her skin, but did not move. The crowd said nothing, not knowing how to react to a Tisroc’s wife unveiled, and speaking against the heir to the throne.

But Zoshrud stepped forwards, expression furious, and reached out with his hand as if he meant to seize her. “Do not speak of matters beyond your comprehension,” he growled in a low voice, which the crowd could not hear over the roaring of the flames.“If Ishaq Tarkaan claims it not, then upon Khalid Tarkaan lies the right, not upon an unruly Tarkheena—”

“Have care, Tashkhad, of how you speak.” Aravis stepped away from him, eyebrows raised in a challenge. He would not dare touch her. “Do you truly want one who supports the Southern Tribes commanding the Empire?”

Before she had finished speaking, she knew she had entrapped him, for the Tashkhid loathed Khalid Tarkaan almost as much as they loathed the Northerners. Adeben Tisroc had long supported their refusal to trade with Wild Men of the South who bore no loyalty towards the Tisroc and were not in service to Tash or the Tashkhid; a decision Khalid blatantly opposed, even going as far as to approach Rabadash in secret in an attempt to have him order the Tashkhid to give him way to do his will. Zoshrud would not dare speak out loud in support of the Prince; and he had no time to consult with his colleagues.

“You are a _woman_ ,” he finally spat, loud enough for all to hear, his voice ringing in the Hall. “No royal woman would dare speak so inside his Temple, to lay a claim of such frivolity!”

“Would you speak so to Zardeenah, or Azaroth? And here, at the feet of Tash Himself!” Aravis’ eyes flashed, and the bangle on her arm burned—she would not need it again. “Were they not only women, but goddesses, above the rule of any man? How dare you then dispute my claim to power by brandishing my sex as if it were an insult—you attempt to denigrate the goddesses, second only to Tash!”

Zoshrud fell back, stricken at her implication, and glanced about him. But the Tarkaans, unaccustomed to hearing a woman of such clear voice and conviction, did not protest but watched wide-eyed as Aravis turned to them.

“In my husband’s absence, as he slayed the barbarian King, it was _I_ who commanded the Empire in his stead; and when he fell ill, so I continued for love of him and the land that birthed me.” Then she extended her arms, and they shone red in the light of firelight. “Behold, people of Calormen! For the fire of Tash shines about me, and upon Him will rest this judgement—I, Aravis of Calavar, Khasik Tarkheena, with the blood of Illsombreh Tisroc rushing powerful through my veins, lay claim on the throne of the Empire. For I am deserving, and Tash will find me worthy.”

And even as she spoke, a cloud above shifted, and a bright ray of light fell through the skylight with blinding potency, illuminating the god’s figure; and a sharp gust of wind blew through the Temple’s arches, and quickened the fire, so that the blaze rose high in the air as Aravis concluded her words. And the people of Calormen quailed, for it seemed to them that Azaroth herself stood before them, a mighty servant of Tash.

.

"You have upset the Tashkhid," Ishamiel said later, frowning as he stood before her. There was much movement in the palace, and the air was strange and uncertain. "They will not let you defeat them."

"I have no desire to defeat them," Aravis said cooly. "Only to keep them at arm’s length."

"They despise you. You have only succeeded out of luck, and because they believe they can use you. Once they discover they cannot, they will turn the winds against you. There is still the child to be reckoned with."

Aravis scowled. “He is but an infant, and Durriya holds little favor in court. They will not think of him yet.”

“They may now, after you have bent the rules for yourself.”

Aravis’ lips pursed into a vicious line, and she shook her head calmly as she leaned back into the large throne of gold, fingers running over the thin band of rune-engraved silver which marked her as Tisroc. “Let them try.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updated the warnings in the tags, and the A/N in chapter 1. You might want to give it a look, since future chapters might get darker. Thanks for reading!

_The girl had dark skin and long black hair, and her eyes glittered as she battled her elder brother in the courtyard of the lavish house, meeting his blunt sword with her stick, barefoot on the sand._

_Her brother left some days later after bowing low before their father, clothed in shining armor and looking stern in the summer heat. Yet he knelt before the girl and kissed her forehead with a grin, and when he mounted his steed and rode away to battlefields far West, the girl knew, in some deep part of her heart, that she would never see him again._

…

The oddly vivid dream about the young girl still weighed on Cor’s mind when Corin joined him for breakfast, looking haggard and hungover. The Coronation festivities had lasted long into the night, and Corin had drowned his painful emotions in wine, finally collapsing in a pantry in the lower levels of the castle. Cor couldn’t blame him; had he not been King of Archenland, he might have followed suit. The sweet ignorance of drunkenness seemed much preferable to the constant state of anxiety he had found himself in ever since his coronation.

“The ale got to you too, then,” Corin groaned, after catching sight of his brother’s tired frown. 

Cor shook his head. “I had a very vivid dream about a girl. Couldn’t sleep afterwards.”

Corin shot him a look.

 “It wasn’t like _that_ ,” Cor retorted, affronted. “A _young_ girl, no more than fourteen…” he trailed off. “I don’t know. It was odd.”

 “We’ve all got strange dreams,” Corin said wryly, rubbing his forehead. “Best forget them. When’s the Council convening?”

 “Now, Prince Corin, if that is well with you,” said a voice, and the twins looked up to see Lord Shar in the doorway, a small group of men following him into the breakfast room. “We thought it prudent to arrive at once, and if it will not disturb you—”

 Cor sighed inwardly, but offered a polite smile and rose to his feet, gesturing at the table before them. “Please, friends, do join us.”

 Thank you, Majesty.” The words sounded foreign to Cor—they had always been meant for King Lune. “Time is pressing, and though we are loath to disturb you, these are desperate times.”

 Corin turned and rolled his slightly reddened eyes at Cor as seven men filed into the room. Lord Shar settled down directly in front of Cor, and Cor made a quick sign to the servants to remove the food from the table. He had lost his appetite. At his side,Corin frowned and kept his hand firmly on his mug as the other men took their seats.

 Darrin looked displeased with Shar's blatant inconsideration of courtly etiquette, but said nothing, instead taking his seat beside the Varlin, the King's Secretary, and crossing his fingers over the hard wood of the table. The room was smaller than the Council chamber, but Cor supposed moving would be too much of a complication.

 "I trust you have had a good rest after yesterday's festivities, Sire?" Lord Dar asked from beside his brother. He was slightly taller and sterner, his dark moustache carefully trimmed. He always gave Cor the impression of being a man that was unaccustomed to the soft comforts of a castle, preferring the battlefield instead.

 "As well as could be had, yes," Cor replied. "What matters are we to discuss?"

 Darrin glanced at Shar, who seemed to have decided that he would allow others to do the talking until the time came to speak his piece. It was clear that the discussion long preceded their meeting. Corin scowled into his mug, though only Cor noticed.

 "There is the matter of the current state of Narnia," said Darrin.

 "We had little time to give thought to that country, with tragedy striking our own lands, but Narnia is our sister nation," said Lord Colin, a round-faced man, well versed in trade.

 "So the Four have not been found," Cor said. He had feared it would be so, but in the aftermath of his father's death his grief seemed to have merged with exhaustion. He had nothing left to feel, though he had loved the Four as if they had been of his very blood. King Peter and King Edmund had often carried him and Corin on their shoulders when they had been small children, and the Queens had taught them wonderful games in Cair Paravel's rose gardens.

"They have not," Darrin replied, face grave. "Such a pair of tragic weeks the world has never known."

"Yet we cannot linger on grief only," Lord Shar announced, meeting the King's eyes. "They have crowned their new king. Peridan, son of Lorman—once a squire to King Lune, in the times of the Cursed Winter. He is of Archenland."

Cor raised his eyebrows in surprise, and Corin put down his mug. " _Peridan_? He's King of Narnia now?"

"So it would seem," Lord Shar replied, sliding a scroll over the table towards Cor. "This arrived last night with a gryphon—they await Archenland's reply."

"Then they shall have it," Cor said, still rather confused by the turn of events. Peridan had been a good friend to them on the times they had visited Narnia. He let out a low laugh of bewilderment. "So he is an ally now, as well as a friend."

The Lords glanced at each other, and he was suddenly aware of the strange air in the room. Darrin's expression was stony, but Lord Shar had a small, condescending smile on his lips that filled Cor with dread.

"Some of us, Sire, are... _uncomfortable_ with this turn of events."

"Uncomfortable?"

Darrin heaved a sigh before Shar could reply. “You see, Sire, there are hundreds of men in Archenland who can claim blood relation to King Frank and Queen Helen.”

“And whilst Lord Peridan is, doubtless, a man of high honor,” Lord Shar interrupted, and Darrin fell silent. “His naming begs the question of whether or not the Narnian Council intentionally overlooked the other offspring of the Royal Line. King Marron was not the only King with children in Archenland, and there were Princes more favorable than Prince Jariden from whom the Narnian King might descend.”

Cor tried very hard not to scowl. “So you are saying that in Archenland there are those who feel they were overlooked in the naming of the Heir?”

“Yes, Sire.”

“Who are these men?”

The Council members shared glances, and Cor saw that Corin’s neck had turned red with anger. His fist was clenched on the surface of the table. Lord Myn spoke up, his soft voice unusually loud in the silent room. “There are many, Sire—but their names are of no concern at this moment.”

“Our concern is that Narnia has stealthily removed from Archenland her blood right, crowning an Archenlander who left us as a child, as opposed to one well-versed in matters of court; as a sister nation, Archenland ought to have been consulted if the matter of coronation affected our own people,” said Lord Shar.

“Narnia has never consulted Archenland in such matters,” Darrin said sharply. Across from him, Corin had forsaken his drink entirely and was now leaning back in his seat with his arms folded firmly on his chest. “It is a blatant act of mistrust and evil interest to seek to pry into Cair Paravel—”

“Did the High King Peter not _ask_ that of us, Darrin?” Lord Shar cried, fire in his eyes. “Upon the rising of the Four to the throne, they were but children! Legitimate their ruling may have been, but they were inexperienced, and as such called upon us to give up our able men, which King Lune—peace be on him, for his heart was generous and gentle—gave freely. We have always issued a helping hand. It would only be seemly to send word to Archenland for assistance in their dilemma—our nation was first and foremost, upon the conquest of the Witch, a haven to Human Narnians; to choose Lord Peridan without glancing at our people is glaring disrespect. Sire,” he said finally, turning to Cor and meeting his eyes. “You more than anyone comprehend the peril of these times. The Tisroc of Calormen is as a rabid beast, and has shown his true colors; we can no longer count on safety from the South—in fact, we must expect a larger attack any day now. Galma has never been reliable; they move with the tides and will not aid a kingdom in peril. And Narnia, now, has shunned us. What is Archenland now, but an island among enemies?”

Lord Dar had barely spoken, but at Shar’s last words he stirred, glancing at Cor for permission. “Sire, if I may—” Cor nodded. “Archenland has long lived in such a state; in the time of the Witch’s reign we ever feared conquest from the North, and Calormen has ever been unpredictable and dangerous. But our mountains protect us, and our people are accustomed to these perils. Fearmongering will do us no good—”

“Fearmongering?” Lord Tran, master of seafaring, spoke up grimly. “Shar may be passionate, but the danger is there. Our own King was murdered by Calormene fiends just outside these very walls! I would say there is much reason to have fear—and we must act swiftly, for the Tisroc will not wait much longer to strike again and utterly defeat us.”

Cor glanced at Corin and could feel the anger in his brother, simmering and approaching boiling point. He cleared his throat, mind buzzing with all the information that was being thrown about, and mostly confused as to what conclusion Shar and Tran seemed to be trying to lead the Council towards.

But he did not have the chance to speak, for the doors of the chamber opened suddenly and a messenger entered, bowing at the threshold.

“Forgive me, Sires, Lords,” he said nervously, clutching a scroll in his gloved hand. “But I bear an urgent message.”

The Lords were silent and Cor nodded, signaling for him to approach. With another bow, the messenger set the scroll in the King’s hand and then backed away to the door once more, awaiting further orders.

In silence, Cor unsealed the scroll and spread it open before him. Corin seemed to relax slightly, curiosity overpowering his anger, and his arms uncrossed as he awaited Cor’s explanation.

Then Cor swallowed, clenching his jaw as he tried to understand what feelings were now stirring within him, and why his mind fell back, once more, to the strange dream and the girl’s brother, riding away over the sandy roads. He looked up at the Council.

“Rabadash is dead. Another Tisroc has taken his place.”

…

“Aravis.”

She started, opening her eyes and straightening. The canopied throne felt too large for her small body, and she sat curled into a corner, legs wedged between the cushions. Lasaraleen knelt before her, a tentative hand on her knee.

“Aravis.” She had insisted that Lasaraleen and the other women continue to call her by her first name when they were in private. She did not think she could bear hearing them call her _Tisroc_. They had complied, though there was a hesitance every time they uttered it. “Do you wish to retire to your quarters? They will understand.”

Aravis let out a low, skeptical laugh. They would most certainly _not_ understand. She reached up to smooth her hair. The pointed cap Tisrocs had worn did not fit her, so she had gone without—the silver band upon her arm was proof enough. They had insisted upon her using a veil, but besides the traditional loose head covering, she had not complied; she was no wife anymore, and if Rabadash Tisroc and Adeben Tisroc and all the others before them had not covered their faces, then why should she?

She had not slept well enough the night before, mostly owing to the new rooms she had found herself in. Though it took every fiber of her being to persuade herself to spend the night in the chambers Rabadash had occupied—which _she_ had had to occupy, on occasion—, she knew that not moving into the Tisroc’s chambers, and preferring to remain in the Women’s Wing alongside the other wives, would make her seem weak.

So she had done the best she could, naming Badrih and Aya her ladies in waiting, and Lasaraleen Tarkheena her honored friend. She would have kept the latter to herself as well, but Lasaraleen had two children of her own and could not afford being absent from her own home too often.

Still, she had slept much too fitfully the night before, beset by dreams of her childhood where she recalled playing with her elder brother in the courtyard, and saying goodbye to him as he rode to Teebeth, to the battle that would prove the death of him.

It had been a long time since she had dreamt of Calavar, and an even longer time since she had allowed herself to think of it; the memory of bed of bright geraniums and swaying trees as the horse-trainers’ cries and galloping hooves could be heard in the distance, had wrung her heart with longing for many months after her arrival at Tashbaan. It weakened her.

“I am well,” she said, procuring to make her voice ring clear. Marehk Tarkaan had just entered the Throne Hall from a smaller door to the side, followed closely by Ishamiel. It was by Ishamiel’s influence only that Marehk continued to hold the title of Grand Vizier. _Some you must keep on your side_ , he had advised her; she would have named him Vizier if his rank had permitted it. But she did not trust Marehk any further than his fear for her, which she had instilled early on in her dealings with him upon her arrival at the Tisroc’s court, and which only seemed to have grown after the spectacle at the Temple of Tash. “You may open the doors.”

Lasaraleen straightened and backed away, moving to take a seat in a corner. Women who were not wives of the Tisroc were hardly ever permitted to remain in the Throne Hall whilst the Tisroc conducted matters of state. But things had changed.

At a signal, the slaves on either side of the large copper doors at the far end of the Hall pulled the brass handles inwards, and the guards who had waited just beyond entered the room and stood to attention, hands on their spears as the doors opened.

Aravis sat straight-backed on the throne, shoulders stiff, and wound her fingers together as a small cluster of men approached slowly. She did not have to spot the white turbans before she knew that it was the Tashkhid.

“Marehk,” she murmured as she watched them approach, small specks of white beneath the towering pillars.

The Vizier started to attention and quickly moved closer. “I live to serve, O venerable Tisroc.”

“Bring me the physician; and be quick.”

“To hear is to obey.” He scuttled off.

Ishamiel drew a deep breath as the small procession drew closer. “Tread lightly, O Tisroc. They are bloodthirsty as hounds.”

“Yet easily led astray by their own noses as well, I deem.”

She had no respect for this band of so-called religious men. As a child, she had known that  they were revered far above any of the Tarkaans but the Crown Prince, spoken of with respect if not with veiled hatred; the Tarkaan Houses ever found themselves challenged by the Tashkhid in a seemingly never-ending battle for power. As an adult, she had grown weary of their constant interventions—she knew Zoshrud had supported her father’s request to marry her to Rabadash in the hopes that it would gain him more access to Calavar’s riches and cavalry, and give them material for blackmail should Kidrash Tarkaan refuse to assist in the Tashkhid’s plans.

The five men reached the foot of the steps that led up to the canopied throne, and for a moment it seemed to Aravis that they would not kneel before her, so resentful and dark were the looks on their faces. But then they slowly lowered themselves to the floor, and Aravis tightened her grip on her own fingers as she watched Zoshrud Tashkhad’s forehead touch the ground, almost a mockery of reverence, yet submission all the same.

“O eternal Tisroc,” Zoshrud said finally as he straightened, though they all remained on their knees before her. His mouth was tensed tightly beneath his white beard, and his eyes were like dark beetles, glittering with cruel intent. “We seek your wise counsel in this moment of grave changes.”

“I would not think them _grave_ ,” Aravis said calmly. “What ails you, O admirable Tashkhid? Is it not but one day since the Day of Offering? Have the sweet-scented vapors of the Sacred Temple been dispersed so soon after our heart-rending sacrifice?”

“They have not. The Incomparable has taken well to our gifts, which were grievously given. Yet we have… _concerns_ , which could not be appeased through prayer only.”

“Grave indeed must be these _concerns_ , if the Tashkhid cannot rid themselves of them through prayer.”

Their gazes met, and Aravis did not balk. Zoshrud pretended not to heed her mocking tone. “We trust that the enlightened Tisroc comprehends the dilemma in which the Empire has found itself; while her claim was received within the Temple, the people hesitate to accept a woman as their true ruler, much less a woman who was not an heir, but rather a Khasik. It is—”

“Why should this matter?” Aravis retorted. “Is the testimony of Tash the Almighty not witness enough?”

She had caught them in this trap before, and she knew they squirmed to find themselves within it. “Of course it does,” muttered another, a man by the name of Guram Tashkhad. “But the people are uneducated and tainted with the depravity of material cravings, unable to see beyond matters of the flesh and earth to that which is above them; and as such, we must acknowledge the risk the unrest presents.”

Aravis tilted her head slightly and stared at them for a long moment. “O eloquent Tashkhid,” she said, speaking slowly, and allowing her lips to curve into a slight smile. “Well have the poet said that softly-cushioned words may hide a sharpened dagger. Were it not you, trusted servants of this court, who addressed me, I might suspect your words were a threat.”

She gave added emphasis to the word _servants_.

“Then it is our fortune that you know our hearts well,” said Zoshrud to Aravis, shooting Guram a dirty look for his bold words before returning his gaze to her. “Yet even you cannot deny that great change comes with a female Tisroc, hitherto unheard of in this Empire; whilst Rabadash the Slayer of Kings took you for his wife, you bore him no child, and so have no heir. Unless you intend to marry soon, there would be no future for the throne of your bloodline. And indeed,” he added, his look turning strange. “A Tisroc _with child_ …” he said no more, as if the very idea disgusted him.

Aravis felt rage bloom in her chest, remembering the day, scarcely three months after her wedding and when she still mostly bore the body of a child, when the Tashkhid had cornered her and demanded an explanation for why there was no heir—for their bullying implications that perhaps she was not with child because _Tash does not bless the ungodly_ …for their twisting of reality and their ever-pressing hunger to blame the Tisroc’s shortcomings on the supposed unfaithfulness of a child bride.

She was about to speak, when suddenly another figure appeared in the space between the doors, moving quickly towards them, a large bundle in its arms.

It was Durriya Tarkheena, and she bore her child in her arms.

Aravis’ jaw clenched. “Send her away.”

“Do not send me away, _Tisroc_ , occupied with matters of importance as you may be,” Durriya spat, and as Aravis turned the guards halted midway towards her. “For I carry one of great importance, before whose countenance you must answer. And the presence of the wise Tashkhid is very welcome.”

Zoshrud seemed to be pleased with finally being acknowledged as he believed befit his rank. Aravis could feel her own nails digging into her skin. Ishamiel and Lasaraleen had tensed, but it was not their place to speak, and so they remained still in their respective corners.

“Here is the son of the Prince Rabadash,” said Durriya, and knelt on the ground even as the Tashkhid parted before her. The child in her arms stood tentatively, clinging to the sleeves of her frock and refusing to step forwards with all eyes on him. Durriya’s angry eyes met Aravis’. “His is the right to claim the title of Tisroc, for in him the blood runs purest.”

But Aravis heard the soft opening of the door beside her, and stood up, looking down on the softly whining child and its mother’s rage-filled eyes. And she was reminded of the cruel twist of Durriya’s smile when she found Aravis trembling before the Tisroc’s chambers on her first day in the palace, and the harsh slap she had bestowed on Aravis’ cheek the second time Rabadash neglected to call her to his chambers, and the taste of blood that had filled her mouth after the second slap came. Badrih had warned her of Durriya’s jealousy, but Aravis had not told her of all that had come to pass—her resentment and hatred for Durriya had grown in silence, and now at last she stood higher than the other woman, who surpassed her by some five years, and who now brandished her child at her in an attempt to dislodge her from the place she had earned.

The child then shifted, and its head turned, and Aravis thought she saw Rabadash’s dark eyes looking up at her.

She swallowed and looked away, fixing her gaze on Durriya instead, and watching as her eyes moved away from the throne and towards Marehk Tarkaan, who had just entered with the palace physician in tow.

“Does it?” Aravis asked the silent room.

Durriya paled.

The physician remained in silent confusion, but Durriya suddenly reached out and pressed the child to her bosom, pulling it towards her, eyes wide and fearful. For she knew, as all the wives did, what the physician had told Rabadash some two years ago—that he was sterile, and no fruit would grow from his seed. Rabadash had dismissed the physician with death threats, and further threatened any who knew the truth, but the knowledge had remained, unspoken yet known among the women; and when Durriya bore Rabadash a child, he announced it to be long-expected, but the women wondered.

And Rabadash must have doubted, as well, loath as he was to admit the truth to himself—for he had seemed to forget Durriya afterwards, and kept the child far from him, as if seeing it made the sun darken in his eyes. Perhaps the physician had been wrong, and the eyes Aravis saw on the infant were truly Rabadash’s, but both Durriya and Aravis knew well the fate that would await Durriya should the truth be known.

As the room remained silent, Aravis slowly stepped away from the throne and made her way down the steps. She wore, still, the red robes of mourning— _for I loved my husband dearly,_ she had murmured, the lies sour on her tongue—and the Tashkhid shied away from them as she passed through the group and came to a stop before the kneeling Durriya, whose child was now nuzzling her neck, held fast in her arms.

Aravis did not kneel. She remained standing, looking down at the other woman’s upturned face, and felt clearly the stinging ache of the violence Durriya had inflicted on her in those early days.

“It is a pity, O sweetly esteemed friend of mine,” she finally said. “That your father is not here to see this beautiful child—for if he should claim my title, I am sure Bilash Tarkaan of Tehishbaan will be eager to attend such an event.”

She could almost hear the ears of the Tashkhid sharpen about her. Bilash was Tarkaan of Tehishbaan, a long arch-enemy of the Tarkaans of Tashbaan and a great threat to the Tashkhid, for he refused to listen to their counsel. She pretended not to notice. “Tarkheena, you have sinned against the Tisroc, eternal ruler of the Empire, challenging her rule and acting in a way that is most unseemly. The child is not yet of age, and can make no claim of his own. You will be punished for such heedlessness.”

The Tashkhid stirred, unsure. "O Tisroc—"

“Silence,” Aravis snapped, eyes fixed upon Zoshrud’s. _Now_ he dared defend the women of the Tisroc, when the Tashkhid had long branded them with false crimes; three of Adeben Tisroc’s wives had been hanged on their assertions of unfaithfulness. And now Zoshrud knelt, unsure, faced with the choice between an enemy long hated and a newcomer unknown. "You came to me for counsel, did you not, men of Tash? This counsel I have given."

She said nothing more as she turned and walked back to the throne. Lasaraleen kept a hand upon her mouth, gasping silently as Durriya was pulled away by the guards, her child held tightly in her arms and crying loudly. Something dark and sickly clenched inside Aravis’ stomach, and she looked away from the sight; but she heard Durriya scream her name before she was beyond earshot.

On the floor, the Tashkhid bristled.

.

When all had left the room and they were out of earshot, Ishamiel turned towards Aravis with indignation.

"Has the mighty Tisroc misheard me?" he exclaimed. "How many more enemies do you intend to make before they rise in rebellion against you? You cannot survive your rule without the Tashkhid at your side."

It was at that precise moment that Khalid Tarkaan arrived. Aravis became aware of it because of the small cries that carried through the Hall of Statues as people were pushed to a side by the large, seething Tarkaan, still clad in full armor and riding gear. His silken turban was dusty and slightly misshapen from his travels, and gave the impression that he had ridden at full speed without a moment’s rest back to Tashbaan. Behind him came a small posse of men, their expressions hard and unforgiving.

“Who is this _witch_ , that has the men of Calormen so enthralled?” he cried loudly, and the guards jumped forwards as he sprinted up the dais suddenly. But they were too slow, and he had already climbed the steps and pulled Aravis up by the neck before she could pull away.

She waved at the guards, bidding them to wait, and they stood in a tense semicircle. Khalid’s large hand put pressure on her throat, but he stayed his grip and merely leaned down, his stale breath hot on her face.

“Unhand me, Tarkaan,” Aravis said through gritted teeth. “Or my Guard will have your head mounted on a spike.”

“ _Your_ Guard?” Khalid growled. “The Tisroc’s whore is fit only for his chambers—and you presume so, unveiled and unrepenting on my brother’s seat?! Madness indeed fell upon this city on the day I left. The peace of the gods be on my brother, who would have stilled this abomination!”

“Your brother is dead,” Aravis said. “And the arms that were his are now directed at you by my orders; shall you learn your place through the sharpness of the sword?”

Khalid followed her gaze and saw the Guard surrounding them, their spears outstretched, waiting. His jaw clenched and he swallowed, and with a cry he pushed Aravis back onto the throne and threw his arms wide, looking down at the men.

“Would you kill me, then, and deny that this creature is unlawful in her claim? Have I no rank as Adeben Tisroc’s own son?”

The men’s eyes flickered towards Aravis, awaiting orders. Ishamiel had a hand on the hilt of his scimitar.

Seeing that he was in no immediate danger, he turned back towards Aravis, eyes furious. “So you would be rid of me, just as you have done with Ishaq—I suspect you have murdered him as well?"

"I have done nothing but leave him to his haunts among the drunken," she snapped. Khalid knew his brother well. "An imbecile seeks only incoherent company."

He looked as if he might strike her, and she held her head up high, daring him to try. The Guard might still doubt her, but through her they gained many privileges, and they would not allow her to die. She was still a soul chosen by Tash before all the people of the Temple.

“The Tashkhid should not have carried out the ceremony without me,” Khalid said, and his tone was calmer now, though the anger was still fire in his eyes. “I am second in line; this was a ploy on their part to rid me of opportunity.”

“My distinguished husband agonized long before leaving to the realm of the gods,” Aravis replied. “Had you ridden with him to Archenland, then the knowledge would have been yours the very night you had returned.”

“I was kept in Ramar to prevent bloodshed in a sudden uprising,” he answered through clenched teeth. “I could not come.”

“Then it is not the Tashkhid who are at fault, nor I. Tash took my loving husband upon the eve of Midsummer in a clear sign of assertion. It could not be denied. And Ishaq, the buffoon, did not present himself—as such, the gods chose among the worthy at the Temple.”

Their gazes locked, and his dark eyes bore into her with rage. He had underestimated her for a long time; Aravis suspected he did not even know her full name or the province from which she came. The sight of his realization that he could not outwit her brought her a sharp sense of vindication.

He drew a shuddering breath. “For good reason did my brother call you _Viper_ ,” he muttered, heard only by her ears. “What poison you have you injected into this realm?” But he stepped back, descending from the dais, not looking away. “I will remove myself, then, _Tisroc_ —lest this witchcraft so ensnare me. May you live forever.”

And so saying, he turned and strode out of the hall. Aravis watched him disappear between the pillars beyond, and the Guard retreated to their positions once more.

“You would have been better off if they had killed him,” Ishamiel said darkly.

…

“Sire, now is our chance to act,” Lord Shar said quickly as the messenger was dismissed and Cor continued to look at the scroll. “Calormen is disrupted and it will take the new Tisroc some time to gain his footing. If we act swiftly, catastrophe can yet be avoided.”

Cor looked up from the scroll, mouth pressed into a hard line. He was well aware that Shar was taking advantage of his lack of expertise in decision making. Though he had spent the last few years present at every Council meeting, it had always been his father who had known how to curb Shar’s persistent ideas, which often clashed hard against Darrin’s, and by extension, Dar’s. To find himself surrounded by men who had been as uncles to him when he had been a child, and to be thedeciding vote in all ideas they had, was almost suffocating.

“What are you proposing?” he asked stiffly, trying not to sound as exasperated as he felt.

“That we take Narnia as an annex to Archenland.”  

All heads turned to Shar in astonishment, and Cor saw Corin’s knuckles turn white. He forced himself to remain calm, but before he could get a word in edgewise Dar was already exclaiming: “ _Take_ Narnia? What madness is this?”

“As an act of mercy, as well as survival,” Shar replied earnestly.

“I am not taking an army to invade Narnia,” Cor said in bewilderment.

“Not invade,” said Shar. “At least, not with violence. The Narnians are scattered, and their King hardly has the ability to rule—his loyalty lies with Archenland also, and if he is of right mind, he will not deny us what is rightfully of Archenland possession. Too long have we crouched between these mountains with mighty countries on either side, and not partaking of the vast riches of the North! And the Calormenes would not dare strike a kingdom that surpasses theirs in size. It is mere logic—”

There was a crash, and Corin jumped to his feet, his mug lying in pieces on the floor. His face was red with fury. “It’s _traitorous_ , that’s what it is,” he spat with disgust. “You are proposing the same plan Rabadash did to his father, no doubt—the same plan that got _my_ father _killed_! To sneak over the gap and through the walls of Cair Paravel like thieves and take the spoils of those we love—you disgust me!”

He pushed off of the table and stormed out of the room, the door slamming behind him. Cor rose to his feet, the same rage churning in his stomach, but the look in the eyes of the Lords forced him to hold himself back. Shar’s eyes were sincere, if slightly blinded with greed, and they haunted him even as he murmured “This meeting is adjourned,” and followed after his brother.

He found Corin standing by an open window, shaking, his knuckles scraped as if he had punched the stone walls. There were angry trails of tears down his cheeks, and he brushed them away hurriedly when Cor came to stand beside him.

“Corin—”

“What _was_ that?” Corin snapped, rage and disbelief running through his entire body as he turned and gestured towards the chamber from which they had come. “Is it a Royal Council or an assembly of traitors?”

“You must calm yourself,” Cor said, placing a hand on Corin’s shoulder. “It’s just the confusion of the times; it makes for desperate ideas.”

“Oh, I’m desperate enough,” Corin exclaimed. “But I don’t talk of marching in to kill Peridan in his sleep. Are they going to pretend that such a plan is motivated by anything other than envy?” Again, he slammed his fist against the stone windowsill. The collision was hollow, and left no reverberations. “And meanwhile the Calormenes live quietly in their palaces, with no retribution for the horrendous crime they committed! If we are to dispatch an army _anywhere_ , it should be to Tashbaan, and have them slaughter the lot of them.” He glared down at the distant ground. “Let Shar go too, if he’s so keen for murder.”

Cor sighed, reaching up to rub his temples. A dreadful headache was growing behind his eyes. He had no words to comfort Corin, and was not foolish enough to try and chastise his brother for his unseemly attitude in the Council; he would risk getting his nose broken,  King or no. And though Peridan had always been a friend to them, older by a few years and quite a match when it came to a blade—he had also been trained by Dar in his childhood—, Cor could not deny that there was some truth to Shar’s words.

Archenland would not survive another onslaught from Calormen; that much was clear. Even if Narnia’s armies were somehow assembled by Peridan himself, how much longer could a nation survive depending on the aid of its fellows? Who knew if Narnia would even be in condition to help the North resist?

King Lune had been a kindly and generous man, yet staunch and immovable in his convictions. It was by his quick action that Anvard had been protected with enough speed to avoid a massacre. But Cor was not like his father. As he looked out the window, past the walls of the castle and the red-tipped roofs of Anvard, he could make out the mountain walls that rose up into the misty skies. They were locked in between powerful countries, and time was ticking past them… if action was not taken swiftly, all would be lost.

They could not hope to take Calormen. Not even a stealthy operation, executed with the utmost caution, could overthrow the Calormenes. All Tisrocs were the same—lusting for the North just as much as they feared it, always on the brink of betrayal. It had been so ever since Narnia’s riches had been made evident, and was not likely to change until the Tisroc had taken all he could of the land on all the borders of his empire.

No, to attack Calormen would be impossible. Yet to withstand an attack, to be caught in a siege, would certainly prove the end of them. They had already lost too many of Archenland’s skilled men to Rabadash, and the people were paralyzed with fear at the prospect of the nation, ever small and lacking in the luxuries of their neighbors, falling to catastrophe.

Cor knew that there was no little envy on Archenland’s part towards Narnia. Shar’s words before the Council had been thoughts long brewing finally spoken aloud. For years, Archenlanders had murmured amongst themselves that it would be _they_ who finally managed to conquer Narnia and defeat the White Witch. They had not expected the arrival of the Four. They had not _wanted_ the arrival of the Four. And though great riches had come with trade with Narnia, the people of Archenland ever whispered in the darker corners of the country that _Narnia should have been of an Archen King._

And it was so, now—Peridan had come from Archenland. But he was not worthy, in the eyes of the Lords. The resentment that had long simmered, stifled by the pleasure of Narnia’s colorful company and the imported Fauns’ wine, was finally uncovered, and the vapors were beginning to take shape. Archenland did not support Peridan’s rule.

Cor clenched his fist around the scroll he found had somehow returned to his hand. The seal of the Lion, cloven in half, stared up at him and awaited acknowledgement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there's Chapter 2... I'm a few chapters ahead, still, and editing fiercely. Let me know what you think!
> 
> Thanks to my mom for being the coolest beta ever.


	3. Chapter 3

_The clearing was the perfect place, Aravis thought. The blades of grass shone almost golden in the sunlight, and reminded her of the times she and her brother had played in the plains when they were younger. Her brother would not have approved of her carrying his dagger._

_But she had no choice. Dismounting from the mare she had ridden so far and casting a glance around to ensure that no one had followed, she walked a little way further until she was bathed in the warm, golden light. How would her blood look when they found her? Would it seem as a red river that had spread from the heart of a wronged maiden? Would her father repent for what he had done—what he had doomed her to do? Would he mourn the untimely death of his only daughter?_

_She closed her eyes to the onslaught of sobs that shuddered through her body; she had not wanted to die like this, forced to choose between a short life of honor and a long one with no dignity. She had always thought she might persuade her father to allow her to fight in the Western wars as her brother had, to die upon the battlefield with a thousand arrows in her body, victorious, the only woman to strike such a blow upon the rebels of the Empire—_

_Aravis drew a breath, and reaching up to her dress, parted the strings that clothed her neck and chest, and lay her fingers over where she could feel her pulse heaviest. She had watched the manservants kill pigs, heard their screams of pain—she would not scream like a beast; she would bear the pain in silence, for she had chosen this fate, and there was great honor in such a choice._

_She pulled out the jeweled dagger, closing her eyes. Her very skin seemed to be aware of where the sharp point lay, though it had yet to touch her. She dared not look, lest she lose her nerve. Her hand trembled, and the tears felt hot on her cheeks and neck as they fell into the folds of her clothes. She drew a deep breath—her last, perhaps—and prayed to Tash that he might reunite her with her brother; and to Zardeenah, that she might take her into her company of maidens._

_Her arm tensed, and she moved to stab her heart with all the strength she could muster._

_But suddenly a warm head—the head of a beast, a_ horse _—pressed itself between her skin and her hand, and with a cry she dropped the dagger._

…

Aravis awoke with a gasp and wondered if she had screamed aloud. Her face felt damp, and she had to press a fist to her mouth to stop the sobs that threatened to escape her. She could not cry—she could not afford having the servants outside hear her cry. She was the Tisroc. She was not weak.

Surrounded by the walls of Rabadash's bedroom—it was not  _her_  bedroom; it would never be—she felt as if she were on the verge of suffocating. The whiteness in the eyes of the figures in the tapestries, embroidered depictions of Tash and Azaroth, of Ardeeb Tisroc riding into the fray of battle, of jeweled women dancing about Zardeenah, Lady of the Night, seemed suddenly demonic, and Aravis buried her face in her pillow, choking back her sobs.

It was not the first nightmare she had of that day, when the sun had turned dark in her eyes after her father had announced her betrothal to Ahoshta Tarkaan.

Closing her eyes tightly, she forced her gasping breaths to calm and found her fingers clinging tightly to the covers. Even the pillow smelled of  _him_. It felt too soft, too delicate—like feeble skin that gives away to rot.

Disgusted, she pushed off from the bed and rose unsteadily to her feet, battling sudden vertigo and stumbling to the window. Arms shaking, she scrambled to push away the curtains and dissipate the stench of Rabadash's sickness and death, dispel the smell that felt as if it had encrusted itself into her very pores—she still remembered what his sweat smelled like, the sour taste of his breath...

She braced her arms against the windowsill and breathed in the midnight air. Below, Tashbaan lay asleep, nearly all lights extinguished. Only a few lanterns remained on the streets and about the palace as guards patrolled in silence. The lights of the harbor in the East glimmered coldly against the dark water.

Now, with her mind a bit clearer and the urge to cry diminished, her horror gave way to confusion. She had had the same nightmare many times over the past two years, but they had always ended the way that the incident truly had: with her father's men finding her and dragging her away despite her protests. She had tried to end it then, to drive the dagger through her heart before they laid their hands on her, but she had failed, and her father's manservant had pulled the knife from her hand just as it cut through the flesh, leaving a jagged scar just below her clavicle. Rabadash had loathed it when he saw it, grunting that Kidrash Tarkaan had given him a gift of marred beauty, and remarking that he ought to carve a scar on her other shoulder, if she was one whom men branded like a horse. He had never gone through with his threat, but she had often dressed in fear, worried that he might catch sight of the thin white line on her breast and call for the slaves to bring him a knife.

But this nightmare had been more vivid than any other she had experienced. Even now, she could feel the cold sensation of the dagger, though she was far away from the clearing in Calavar and her fingers only clutched the stone edge of the window. And the mare… Why had the dream ended so? What thoughts had her mind created that could cause the appearance of such a creature, and have it act as her savior?

Badrih was a great believer in the Azar Dream theory — most probably as a consequence of her Zalindreh upbringing. Aravis knew that the mere suggestion of a dream would make Badrih believe the mare represented Aravis' yearning for her youth, or that the shade of the grass held some sign of her hidden anguish, or some other such nonsense. Aravis had had enough of such talk when her stepmother had married her father; and though it was hardly that quality that made Aravis despise her, she had certainly succeeded in destroying any remaining interest Aravis had had in the subject. Only Rafi had ever bothered to learn the detailed catalogues of symbols their stepmother had brought with her from Zalindreh.

The thought of her younger brother, long avoided, felt like a second dagger to her heart.

She took a deep breath to dismiss the thought of him, as she had done over the last few years.

She would much rather have died in the clearing that day than endure everything that had come after. From her father's bitter rebuking in the house, to the long ride to Tashbaan, dressed in silks and presented on a litter as if it were a platter offered to Ahoshta, she had endured unspeakable torture of the mind. She had not wanted to be the Vizier's wife. She had not wanted to be  _anyone's_  wife. She knew what Tarkaans were like—especially those who lived in Tashbaan.

When Ahoshta had been assassinated by an unknown murderer the very night before the wedding festivities had begun, Aravis had been overjoyed. Perhaps now she would be taken back to Calavar, for surely this was a sign that Tash did not approve of the union?

But her father had borne her to the palace instead, and before the throne of Adeben Tisroc had begged of him the blessing of a union between Tash's House and the Tarkaans of Calavar, to be repaid with a dowry of two hundred Calavar-bred horses. His virgin daughter was young and skilled in the arts, he said, and would bring much joy to any Prince.

Aravis' mind was playing tricks on her. Whenever she turned her head, it seemed to her that memories ran about the room in the shapes of people. Her eyes fixed on the figure of Zardeenah—why had the goddess not freed her from Rabadash's chains? Was she not the protector of the unwed? Why had she permitted, even as Aravis pleaded before her shrine on the outskirts of Tashbaan, such misfortune to befall her?

Rabadash had not wished  _the left-overs from the Vizier's table_ , as he called her. But he had enjoyed having her nonetheless, for he found her beautiful. And in a token of generosity towards Kidrash Tarkaan, Adeben Tisroc had named Aravis Khasik Tarkheena—the highest rank afforded to a woman. Aravis suspected this also had to do with Badrih's father falling out of favor in court, but she knew Badrih found relief in being demoted.

The air of the room seemed to have cleared somewhat, and Aravis breathed easier. The dark memories of the place, intermixed with the knowledge of all the cruelty Rabadash and his predecessors had wrought and discussed in that very room steeled her resolve. She would not allow Calormen to fall into the hands of another tyrant.

But what of the mare's strange behavior in her dream? What significance could it possibly hold?

She remembered the beast, her childhood companion of many years. It was a calm animal, energetic yet hardly ever unruly, and the stable boys had often joked that it seemed to understand the language of men. They had named it Hwin.

.

Lasaraleen visited her later that morning for their morning meal. Aravis had bid her to bring her children with her, and the children's laughter carried from the gardens and through the large windows on either side of the small lounge. The servants had been ordered to wait just beyond the door, while Aya and Badrih shared each other's company in the adjacent room some steps away, and so it was only the two of them again, much as it had been in the days of their childhood.

"I do terribly enjoy bringing them here," Lasaraleen said enthusiastically as she took another sweet of sugared cheese. Younger by a few years, Aravis often felt as if she were a child before Lasaraleen, even though her friend's chatter was hardly ever more profound than palace gossip. "They have so much fun in the gardens."

"You can bring them whenever you please," Aravis replied. She suppressed the tiredness that lingered inside her; she could not afford to feel it. They had but a few hours before she must descend to the Throne Hall and likely face the Tashkhid and resentful Tarkaans once more.

Lasaraleen threw her a playful look. "You ought to marry again, Aravis. Now that you are Tisroc you could have any man you please!" She grew rather serious for a moment. "You might marry Prince Khalid… it would certainly simplify matters."

Aravis snorted. "And see another man rule the Empire? I think not. I am weary of husbands; what use is there in being Tisroc if I am bound by the same chains inflicted upon me as a Tarkheena?"

Lasaraleen shook her head ruefully. "You had a grave disappointment in  _him_ ," she said quietly, jerking her head towards the door leading to Aravis' bedroom. With a slight feeling of irritation, Aravis realized that she was not the only one who solely associated that room with Rabadash. "But they are not  _all_ like that. You know my husband—"

"Not all are as lucky as you, Lasaraleen," Aravis said with annoyance. She did not feel like discussing marriage, much less Lasaraleen's good fortune. Lasaraleen had been married off to a handsome, stout Tarkaan with little interest in conflict or politics, who enjoyed parties and collecting rarities in his palace. He suited Lasaraleen well, and while Aravis doubted her friend was in love, she certainly was comfortable.

Lasaraleen sniffed, looking rather affronted, but her expression passed as Aini entered, bearing a tray of coffee. They spent some time sipping their drinks, and the laughter of the children downstairs faded as they were shepherded off to some other area of the castle.

"Have you ever had…" Aravis regretted speaking as soon as she was midway through the sentence, but Lasaraleen was looking up at her with curiosity. "Very vivid dreams, where odd things come to pass?"

"Well, I believe everyone has had  _dreams_ ," Lasaraleen replied, looking bemused. "Some weeks ago I dreamt that Salina Tarkheena—you know, the one that came to the festival about a month ago, from Azim Balda?—well, in the dream she gifted me one of those rubies she was wearing; it was  _lovely_ , I almost feel like I did own it for a moment—"

"I mean the ones that are  _really_ vivid," Aravis interrupted, knowing that Lasaraleen could go on for ages if not stopped. "Where you wake up thinking that maybe you've truly lived the events in your dream."

Lasaraleen frowned curiously. "I'm sure I must have," she said slowly, and then her eyes turned to Aravis in suspicion. "Why? Have you had one?"

Aravis hesitated. She did not want to share the memories of that day in the clearing—no one but her father and his servants knew, and word of it would never leave her family's household. But Lasaraleen's curiosity had been peaked, and she had already put down her coffee, eyebrows raised.

Shifting uncomfortably, Aravis took another gulp of the bitter coffee and tried not to show how disturbed she still was from the memories of the night before. There had been details that she had forgotten, things like the texture of her dress against her shaking fingers and sharp clumps of earth digging through the grass into her knees, which now felt as if they had taken place yesterday. She suppressed a shiver.

Carefully preparing her words before allowing them to leave her lips, Aravis began to explain the dreams that had plagued her over the past few nights—dreams of a strange boy with golden hair who lived in a remote hut by the sea. She made no mention of the nightmare, or of her mare and the new ending to an old memory. And even so, when she was done, Lasaraleen stared at her in bewilderment.

"Perhaps it is a sign of some sort," she said doubtfully. "Didn't the Tisrocs of old (on them be the peace of the gods) have visions that foretold the future? Perhaps you should call upon an interpreter."

"They're just dreams," Aravis lied.

Lasaraleen hummed, draining her coffee and leaning back to recline on the many cushions that surrounded her. "What was the boy like?"

Aravis could see him clearly, in her mind's eye. "Pale, with hair the color of gold—but burnt by the sun. He lives under the command of a common fisherman."

"He sounds like a Northerner," Lasaraleen remarked, reaching across the low table towards another small plate of sweets. She glanced up at Aravis with a small smile. "You speak of him as if you knew him."

Aravis shook her head in dismissal of the idea, but she could not shake the feeling that somehow, she  _did_ know the boy. "I think his name is Shasta."

…

Cor awoke with a strangled cry.

Sitting up in bed, he pressed his hand to his mouth to stifle the sound and then drew in a shuddering breath. On the floor, Corin had not stirred—he had always been a deep sleeper—and Cor relaxed slightly. The last thing he wanted to do was call the entire castle to his room merely because of a nightmare.

Cor immediately felt the cold penetrate his bones when he set his feet on the wooden floor. Pulling a robe over himself, he slipped out of the room and quietly made his way through the silent, darkened corridor.

The guard at the end of the hallway started to his feet, caught by surprise at the King's sudden appearance, but Cor paid him little heed. He made his way through a few more doors until he was in what had been his father's chambers.

There had been some expectation that he would take himself to them after his coronation, but Cor knew he could not—the rooms reminded him all too much of his father.

Now they were bare, stripped of almost all of the furnishings that had made it recognizable to him. Heavy drapes remained over the windows, to prevent dust and wind from entering and wearing down the floor and walls. Large white sheets covered the few pieces of furniture that still remained, and his father's bed seemed like a large ghost hovering motionless in the center of the room.

Cor sat down at the end of the bed, his back against the bronze, lion-claw foot. He closed his eyes and sighed. He had always been able to go to his father for counsel on strange matters that made little sense to anyone else, and Lune would advise him on what a Prince ought to do, on what a  _man_ ought to do.

But King Lune was gone now, and only Cor remained, very disturbed by the dream he had just had. Why had the girl attempted to take her own life? Had she succeeded?

He realized, suddenly, that he thought of her as if she were alive rather than merely something his imagination had conjured up. But it was difficult  _not_  to, when the dreams were so violently vivid. Awakening, he had still felt the same horror he had felt within the dream as he watched the dark-haired girl that had been playing joyfully with her brother only a few nights before pull out a dagger and attempt to lodge it into her own heart.

She had been older in this dream than in the ones before it, but Cor could not fathom what pain would make a child her age prefer death over life.

He was only thankful that the horse had put its head between the dagger and her heart.

He ran a hand over his face, trying to rub the sleep out of his eyes. The expression he had seen on her face was one he did not remember ever knowing at her age. In fact, the greatest agony he could think of having experienced, was the passing of his father. When his mother had passed, he and Corin had still been too young to understand or to remember. Even after the great sickness that swept through the country some years later, he remembered the deaths of some of the courtiers as little more than a sad memory.

There had been two instances in his life when he had nearly died, and when Anvard had been a flurry of panic; Cor remembered vividly being seven years old and toppling down from one of the high walls of the castle as he tried to follow through with a dare made by his brother, falling nearly twelve feet onto the straw-covered stone ground. He had been all right in the end, but everyone had feared the worst, and Corin had only prolonged Cor's stay in the infirmary by boxing him for nearly making him the Crown Prince.

The second instance was one no one ever spoke about, but Cor knew that someone had attempted to hurt him when he was an infant, though he had never dared to ask his father about it after seeing the expression in King Lune's eyes the first time he had mentioned it.

Opening his eyes again, Cor looked around the darkened room and wondered what had happened to the girl and her horse. The horse had almost looked like a Talking Horse, the sort the Four had used to ride into battle. He hoped that somehow, the Horse had managed to save the girl.

He frowned, memory stirring slow and heavy in the back of his mind. "Aravis," he muttered suddenly, the foreign word slipping easily off his tongue, as if it was one he had merely forgotten.

The girl's name had been Aravis.

.

As Lord Dar lowered his sword, Cor reached up to wipe sweat from his brow, chest heaving. It had been some time since he had trained like this, and though the Battle of Anvard had taken place little more than two weeks ago, it felt as if it had been much longer—the Fortnight of Mourning forbade any form of sword fighting, and their periodic training sessions had been halted.

Now, however, Cor felt the straining ache in his muscles and welcomed the familiarity. He sheathed his sword and leaned against the castle wall, kicking up a clump of brown grass with his boot. If he had been somewhat more impulsive in his fighting today, Dar said nothing—maybe he understood that the physical activity was the only way to release the coil of desperate frustration that had wound itself around his heart.

"Your Majesty fights more like Prince Corin nowadays," Dar finally remarked with a small smile, shielding his own sword and tossing the shields they had been using towards the armory.

Cor knew he was right, but gave no explanation. He focused on trying to catch his breath. "Dar," he said presently, and the bearded man glanced up at him. "Do you know what happened when I was still a newborn?"

He knew immediately that there was no need to further explain what he meant. Dar's expression had grown grave, and he seemed to hesitate before speaking again.

"His Majesty your father did not like it to be spoken of," he said. "It was a subject which brought him great pain, for he suffered much fear in that time and, I believe, great guilt at the thought of what might have come to pass.'

"I know. For that same reason I didn't dare ask before, but now I find that I must. Tell me what you know, Dar."

Dar faltered, looking doubtful. "Perhaps this is a matter best taken to my brother," he said. "Darrin knows more on this subject, for he was directly in your father's service at the time and—"

"I would like you to tell me of it."

Dar sighed. "Very well. Perhaps you would like to sit, Sire."

They sat on a low bench that looked out into the small yard where their sparring always took place. The day was sunny and warm, contradicting the grave nature of the story Dar was about to tell.

"When Your Majesty and the Prince Corin were scarcely a week old, or so it is told," Lord Dar began. "The late King Lune and his Queen travelled to the Narnian Plains, where a Centaur gifted with the art of foresight resided. On this day Their Majesties presented both of you before the creature, and upon laying his eyes on you, Sire, he spoke a great prophecy." Here he halted, his dark eyes seeking Cor's, as if he feared the King's reaction. Cor remained impassive. "He said—or so I have heard, for I was not present— _A day will come when this child will deliver Archenland from the deadliest danger in which ever she lay._ "

He fell silent, and Cor frowned. "Why was this not told to me before?"

"That I do not know, Sire. Perhaps your father did not wish to concern you with such foreboding matters, or instill in you some unnecessarily weighty sense of responsibility."

Cor almost snorted at that; was he not King already? Dar continued.

"There was a man who was in the service of your father at the time, Sire… his name was Lord Bar, and he is not spoken of in Archenland any longer, for his crimes were so severe King Lune forbade the very mention of him. He had been Lord Chancellor for many years, but was dismissed when it was discovered that he had been skimming from the Treasury—however, your father was merciful, and Bar demonstrated utmost remorse, and so after a short term of imprisonment, he was freed to live as he may in the kingdom.

"Yet it seems that he was secretly in the service of the Tisroc of the time—Illsombreh Tisroc, I believe—and upon getting wind of the prophecy (doubtless he had stealthy ways of procuring information, even that of the highest secrecy), took it upon himself to rid Archenland of Your Majesty's presence, for he feared that you might be what lay between Calormen and its conquest of Archenland. In secret, he orchestrated a scheme and succeeded in kidnapping Your Majesty and bearing you away to a ship of his.

"A large battle followed, for King Lune heard of what had transpired before Bar got far beyond the Arrow, and when the battle ended Bar lay dead and you had been returned to the arms of your mother. But it was a close call, and I don't believe your father ever truly recovered from the knowledge that he might have lost you but a few weeks after your birth."

Cor said nothing for a long time, mulling over this new information. He had heard Bar's name before, of course, murmured by Lords and Ladies among the pillars of the large Ballroom, but had never quite understood what it was all about. As for the prophecy, he had never heard of it—and the more he thought of it, the heavier it seemed to weigh on his mind.

What might have happened if Lord Bar had succeeded in bearing him away from Archenland? Would he have been murdered, or taken somewhere to live in the slavery of the Tisroc of Calormen?

"It was Lord Lorman, of Narnian blood—King Peridan's father, now," Dar added slowly, as if unsure whether Cor wished to hear it. "Who captured Bar's ship and dealt the final blow. For this reason your father always favored Peridan and Narnia greatly, for they have ever been allies to the nation in times of need."

As Cor made his way back into the castle to wash and dress suitably enough for the Council meeting, his mind strayed constantly to the prophecy. He wondered if his father had meant to keep it secret from him his entire life. Who else had known? And with a terrible lurch of his heart, he wondered if by  _the deadliest danger_  the Battle of Anvard had been meant, and if he had failed in a duty he had not known was assigned to him.

He could not fathom anything he might have done differently when Rabadash assaulted Anvard, but if the prophecy had spoken of him in such a manner, then there must have been  _something_.

Or perhaps there was something worse to come.

Once he had washed and changed into clean clothes, he found Corin waiting for him.

"Ready?" Corin asked, his expression the absolute opposite of excited. His normally enthusiastic face hadn't laughed properly in what felt like ages.

"Try not to bite their heads off this time," Cor told him as they made their way to the Council chamber.

"That depends on whether or not Shar can keep his idiocy to himself," Corin muttered, but said nothing more as they entered the room at the heart of the castle and took their seats.

Darrin's expression had not changed from the last time they had all sat together; he seemed to be in a grim mood, and Dar studiously avoided Cor's gaze, as if he already regretted sharing the story of his kidnapping. Shar, on the other hand, seemed quite eager to begin.

"I trust that Your Majesty has had enough time to consider the options we lay out in our previous meeting," Lord Tran drawled.

"I have," Cor said, and tried to ignore the rapid beating of his heart in his chest. He thought of Peridan, sitting far North in Cair Paravel much in the same manner, battling the knowledge of impending doom and the heavy weight of responsibility put on the leader of a threatened kingdom. So many things had changed, so many perils surfaced.

Cor turned to Varlin, his Secretary, who already held a pen and ink at hand. "Redact a letter to our Sister Kingdom of Narnia, addressed to King Peridan Son of Lorman, First of his name," he looked up at the men that sat on the table around him, and tried not to quell under the hard looks that were directed at him. "I will wish him a long reign, and pledge our allegiance to him, as all Kings of Archenland have before me. For the line of Kings of Archenland was born from Narnian soil, and so she owes us nothing."

"Sire—" Shar began sharply.

"I will not seek to appropriate Narnia, Lord Shar," Cor said coldly. "I would rather have us fight tooth and nail for survival, as we have done in the past, than see my kingdom reduced to naught but petty greed and traitorous schemes."

There was silence across the table, and Shar and Tran exchanged glances. Varlin's pen scratched upon parchment, and it was the only noise in the chamber for a long time.

Finally, Lord Tran drew a breath and spoke to Cor carefully. "Sire, the threat of Calormen draws ever nearer. It would be unwise to assume that the Tisroc will not continue with his predecessor's plan." He hesitated before continuing. "It is out of concern for this that Lord Shar presents his alternative—without an army thrice the size of our current arms, we cannot hope to hold against them."

"We do not yet know what the new Tisroc intends," Cor replied, but foreboding had already settled in his heart.

…

Ishamiel arrived soon after they were finished with their coffee, and Aravis straightened immediately, sensing a shift in the mood. Badrih and Aya remained in the room beside theirs, and Aravis could see them sitting by the window, speaking in hushed voices; they were weary of talk of politics and conflict. Aravis could not blame them.

The foolish conversation regarding dreams she had been having with Lasaraleen was quickly forgotten, and even the Tarkheena seemed to change her manner as she crossed her legs beneath her quietly and waited for the Tarkaan to speak.

"You bring unpleasant news, I sense," Aravis told him.

"I do," Ishamiel replied. "And with your leave I have called upon Marekh Tarkaan to join us, that he may be a part of this council."

Aravis gave him a dark look. "You have no authority to issue commands in my name, Tarkaan."

He did not waver. "I merely wished to ease the weight of your responsibility. And it is necessary for your Vizier to be present, as he is, far beyond the esteemed Tarkheena or myself, your foremost ally."

Aravis swallowed down the bitter words that rose into her mouth. She had no interest in hearing the advice of one who had once been a pawn of Rabadash, and who had carried out her demented husband's orders blindly. But Ishamiel was well-versed in matters of court, and so she waved a hand in acquiescence. There were things of greater magnitude to be concerned about.

Shortly after, muffled footsteps were heard on the carpets outside, and Marekh Tarkaan's thin frame entered the room. He immediately threw himself to the ground before Aravis, forehead pressed to the carpet with such force that she expected him to rise with a floral pattern carved into his brow, and murmured the standard greetings of reverence, which she studiously ignored.

"Speak, then, Ishamiel," she said, eyes still on the tall Tarkaan.

He glanced down at the Vizier before speaking. "O revered Tisroc, as the dawn prayers were called in the Temple of Tash, the clamor of the people reached my ears. Swiftly I dispatched a slave, to inform me of what came to pass. He returned to me bearing this message: that all seven Tashkhid were present before the multitude, and that they spoke words of veiled disdain towards your person. It seems that you will find enemies among the priests of Tash."

"Have they not always been enemies of the Tisroc, though they may disguise themselves as friends?" Aravis scowled. "But to speak against my rule before the common-folk is to betray me entirely. What was said?"

"They are of two minds, it seems. Zoshrud is intent upon making Durriya Tarkheena's child Tisroc—"

"Then between me and the Tarkaans of Tehishbaan, he has found me the worthiest opponent," Aravis mused. "Rather flattering, I feel."

"He can bend her to his will, no doubt," Lasaraleen murmured. Aravis had noticed that her penchant for gossip had shifted quite smoothly towards politics as soon as Aravis had been involved. "Durriya seeks only safety for herself and her child; and Bilash Tarkaan will concede to the Tashkhid, at least initially, if it means acquiring the throne through his grandson."

Ishamiel continued. "Guram Tashkhad, however, seems to have set his allegiance to Ishaq Tarkaan."

"Ishaq is an imbecile and a mockery of a man," Aravis spat. "What hope has Guram to control him? If the Prince sat on the throne, the Hall of Pillars would be the home to vultures and dogs—Guram knows this well. Ishaq suffers an ailment of the mind, which can only be stilled with wine."

"O Tisroc and ruler of eternal and immeasurable reign," Marekh said suddenly from where he yet knelt.

Aravis held back a sigh of exasperation. "Speak, Vizier."

"Know, O victorious Tisroc, who speaks with the voice of fire," the Vizier began slowly. "That in the years of the reign of Rabadash Tisroc, your venerable husband (on whom be the peace of the gods), which drew to a grievous end, this servant was instructed with frequency to walk upon the paths of the Tarkaans—"

With a sigh, Aravis raised a hand. "Your eloquence is well proven, Vizier. Do not exhaust my ears with needless words. I am familiar with the years of my husband's ruling, and require no instruction. What have you to say in regards to Guram and his machinations?"

Subdued, Marekh Tarkaan touched his forehead to the carpet once more before speaking again. "Wise are the words that escape the Tisroc's lips, and even wiser is the mind that wrought them. I have only this to say: that perhaps it is the very wine which Guram Tashkhad expects to wield in order to rein in the Prince's madness, and so ensure victory in his rebellion. They have often frequented similar rooms, and drunk of the same cup; Guram knows Ishaq's fancies well, and the Prince may yet trust him."

Lasaraleen was nodding in agreement, and Aravis felt a slight twinge of irritation that Marekh's words hadn't been completely devoid of intelligence. Ishamiel crossed his arms, dark eyebrows drawn together.

"This is dangerous ground," he said. "Guram has little likelihood of victory over Zoshrud in the eyes of the Tashkhid and the general population, but if Khalid Tarkaan joins his brother…"

"The Tashkhid will never support Khalid, and if Guram makes him an ally, he will surely lose," Aravis said. "Khalid is a concern for another day; the Tarkaans love him greatly, while the Tashkhid do not. It is Zoshrud and his plans for Durriya that pose the greater threat."

Ishamiel sighed, his gaze moving about the room and fixing itself briefly on Aya and Badrih, who remained in their own conversation, though their eyes sometimes strayed towards the group. He lowered his voice as he turned back to Aravis. "I am hesitant to say this, but it must be said, for it is a course of action often taken by the Tisrocs of the past… it may be within your best interests to cut the threat from its root, before it is allowed to grow."

Aravis' voice was sharp. "What are you saying?"

Ishamiel remained silent.

Aravis froze. At her side, Lasaraleen let out a low gasp. She thought she could still hear the laughter of the children in the gardens outside the open windows.

"I am  _not_  going to murder a child," Aravis hissed, and in her mind's eye she saw her younger brother, Rafi, his dark curls bouncing about his head as he raced through the corridors of their father's house.

She suppressed a shiver and swallowed down the knot of guilt that lodged itself in her throat.

"It was customary, O perspicuous Tisroc, to throw the heir apparent into the river Nun," Marekh said, sounding muffled as he returned his forehead to the ground.

"What use is it to be Tisroc if I must resort to barbaric methods in order to assert my rule?" Aravis exclaimed angrily. "I shall not commit such an atrocity!"

"Then what is the alternative?" Ishamiel said, and though the words were spoken with reluctance, Aravis knew concern was foremost in his mind. "The Tashkhid wield more power than the throne does when it comes to the people. A successful Tisroc requires the support of both the Tashkhid and the Tarkaans, and for the moment, O Tisroc, you have neither. Usurping Zoshrud's plan is the best chance we have."

Aravis rose to her feet and paced about the lounge, walking to where the flowing white curtains fluttered in the breeze. She stopped, facing the large structure of the tallest minaret of the Temple of Tash which rose at the top of the hill in Tashbaan, towering above both the Old Palace and the New. She could not see the people from where she was, so removed and distant from the streets of the city.

"I will not take a child's life," she said quietly. "I have already estranged Durriya, and threatened her—I am still armed with knowledge that might keep her in check."

"If Zoshrud desires—"

"If Zoshrud desired it, he could make peace with the Tarkaans and storm this palace, and bring my head out on a spike," Aravis snapped, whirling from the window to look at the others. "But he will not, because the Tashkhid are corrupt and have already dipped their hands into too many dishes. They cannot easily commit to new allies. For the moment, Zoshrud may say what he will—Durriya requires absolute agreement of the people and of the Tarkaans before she can hope to surpass the accusations I could wield against her. This will take time.

"As for Guram, I do not fear him. My Vizier will see to it that he is well fed with liquor and entertained with the women he frequents, and from such stupor not even the Tashkhid could remove him. Khalid may side with his brother, but he loathes the Tashkhid and they would have to offer him the entirety of the South before he rallies to their aid. All these things will take time. We will wait—the winds may yet bring about change."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that took me a while. Frickin' college applications. Thanks for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

_He hugged his knees close to his chest, heels digging into the dusty clumps of grass, his ear pressed against the rough wall of the cottage. It was a cool night, less humid than the weather often was in those parts, and he thought that he might lie down on the grass outside for most of the night to enjoy it, rather than immediately sleep in the stuffy stable. Inside, he could hear the two men speaking—his father, and the tall stranger with the crimson beard._

_He had mostly been listening in out of curiosity, but he soon realized that there were greater things at stake. His father—who was not his father, after all, it seemed—was now negotiating with the stranger. He was not the person he had thought he was; everything had changed._

_Confused, and mulling over the new knowledge he had acquired, and feeling the beginnings of some foreign excitement, he pondered on the possibilities life could now offer him.  And looking down at the stranger’s large horse, who stood grazing in the twilight, he murmured: “I wish you could talk.”_

_“But I can,” said the Horse._

_..._

Cor started out of his sleep, knocking over an ink bottle as he jolted. With a muttered curse, he quickly uprighted the bottle and moved to clear the small mess he had just made. Thankfully, only the corners of two financial reports had been stained, and Cor doubted anyone other than Lord Myn would lay eyes on them.

As he returned everything to its place and straightened in his seat, stretching his shoulders and rubbing his left hand, which had gone numb beneath his arm as he slept on the desk, he could still vividly recall the dream. Was it invading the unintentional naps he took during the day as well? Perhaps vivid dreaming was some misplaced symptom of grief and exhaustion. He could still remember the Horse’s eyes, beady black staring up at him with unmistakable intellect, and the surprise he had felt — almost as if he had never seen a Talking Horse before. 

He stared down at the pile of documents he had bid Varlin to leave him alone with; he hadn’t felt like he could bear being constantly in the company of others. It had been irresponsible to allow the rhythmic process of reading and writing to lull him to sleep in the middle of the day; he was King, now, and could not afford to act in such a manner. He hoped the edges of the papers before him had not left lines on his face.

If only he really _did_ live in a mysterious land by the seashore, with simple concerns such as feeding a donkey and catching enough fish every morning, instead of the weight of an entire country on his shoulders.

He heard a clatter somewhere in the distance, and soon the door opened and Corin walked in.

Cor immediately knew that his brother had been fighting. There were bruises on the freckled skin of Corin’s chest where his shirt was undone, and his knuckles looked even more scraped than they had the day before. Cor watched him silently as he threw himself onto a sofa nearby, his damp hair evidence that he had recently bathed.

“Don’t say anything,” Corin muttered crossly without looking at him.

“I wasn’t going to.”

“You _looked_ like you were going to.”

Cor rolled his eyes, but rubbed them shortly afterwards, trying to dispel what was left of his sleep. He knew Corin liked to frequent the common boxing rings in the city. King Lune had forbidden it, but it hadn’t stopped his brother from going in secret, sometimes dragging Cor along with him—most townsmen would not recognize the Princes when they were dressed in common clothes.

But Cor knew such escapades could happen no longer; or at least, Corin would be going alone.

They remained silent for a while, and Cor got through two more reports Lord Shar had instructed him to read in order to remain informed of the activities carried out southwards. Though visibly irritated at the King’s refusal to follow through with his suggestion to invade Narnia, Shar had quickly striven to make amends for his words, fearful that they might have decreased Cor’s regard for him—which they had, to be honest, but Cor had not commented on it.

Few of their spies remained reliable, sadly. It was difficult to send information over the desert in a timely fashion, and the Narnian Crows King Lune had once employed had now retreated to their own country to take part in the national mourning of the Four and Peridan’s coronation. Even the scroll bearing news of the new Tisroc had held no name or further details as to his identity, though Cor suspected the new ruler must be Prince Ishaq, of whom he had heard very little.

He only hoped that Rabadash had died as painful a death as possible.

It seemed that Corin was mulling over the same matters, for presently Cor became aware of his brother watching him.

“What?”

“The people are frightened, Cor,” his brother said grimly, and Cor suddenly noticed that what he had mistaken for sullenness was actually pressing worry. “There’s lots of talk of moving Northwards, or Westwards towards Telmar. Women are already gathering supplies; they’re calling this the Fall of Archenland.”

Cor bit the inside of his mouth, and dropped the document he had been reading on the desk with a sigh. “I don’t know what to do about it,” he confessed. “Because—I don’t know, it seems to me that they’re on to something,” he added frankly.

“Running’s not going to save anyone,” Corin said seriously. “All it’ll do is leave Anvard more unmanned. If Calormen takes Anvard, then they take the whole country; there’s no bigger fortress between us and Cair Paravel, and even the Pass won’t be of much use.”

“Even with all the men of surrounding villages, we’d barely amass two thousand soldiers,” Cor said,  glancing at Dar’s report that sat near the edge of the table. They had lost too many men to the Calormenes’ assault. “Perhaps another thousand, if the Western Lords send us arms, but it would take them two weeks to gather such a force, and even longer for them to reach Anvard.”

“For a defense, you mean.”

Cor shot his twin a look. “We can’t—”

“Why shouldn’t we?” Corin exclaimed, and rose into a sitting position on the sofa. The bruises on his chest and neck were stark against his pale skin in the daylight. “It’s not wise to just sit here and wait for the Tisroc to invade us again!”

“You think a force of scarcely three thousand can march towards Tashbaan and hope to escape alive? The Tarkaans could gather five thousand in a _heartbeat—_ ”

“And even more than that, if we leave them time to organize themselves.” Corin retorted. “We have a perfect window of opportunity. Their Tisroc is probably still gaining his footing. Let us ride in and take his life, just as they took our father’s!”

“Revenge is not a good reason to cause the death of thousands!” Cor said with exasperation.

Corin left the sofa and stalked towards the desk, pressing his palms to the surface and holding Cor’s gaze. “Did you see what I saw, two weeks ago when the accursed Tarkaans surrounded us? Did you see—as I did—Rabadash Tisroc drive his sword into Father’s chest—”

“ _Of course I saw it_!” Cor shouted, jumping to his feet, his heart pounding. He was suddenly transported to the streets of Anvard, crying out for a retreat as the first of the houses were set on fire, watching men fall on either side of him and then fixing his gaze upon his father, feeling time suddenly still as Rabadash plunged his sword into a gap in Lune’s hauberk. Corin’s eyes, reddened with rage and grief, filled him with anger. “How _dare_ you— Do you think it doesn’t haunt me, too?”

Corin gave him a hard stare. “ _Do_ something about it, then,” he spat. And he left the room, the door closing behind him with a slam.

…

_The water was cold. She could feel it soaking through the armor and into her clothes, and she tightened her grip on Hwin’s mane, afraid that she might float away entirely—or worse, sink to the bottom with the weight of her brother’s armor holding her down._

_She cringed as she heard the roar of the lion again, and tried to suppress her shivering. Had she not faced the prospect of death only a few days before? The terror she felt mingled with embarrassment. And there was someone at her side now; she could barely see the outline of the large horse—a war horse, no doubt—at her side, though its rider was not large enough to be a Tarkaan, and in the thin moonlight she could not catch the brightness of any mail._

_The lion roared again, and Hwin quickened her pace. Aravis held her breath, afraid that they might sink beneath the water’s surface, for now the mare was swimming. But soon they reached the other side of the water._

_The hills behind them were silent, and as a cloud drew apart and shone bright moonlight over them the rider beside her was revealed. There, staring at her warily and drenched from head to toe, was Shasta._

_In the distance, she thought she saw the lights of Tashbaan glitter._

_…_

Aravis pressed her forehead to the thick carpet and breathed in the perfumed air. The sounds of the city were well muffled, here, and only wind stirred the pillars of white cloth that closed off the room from the rest of the Temple of Tash.

She was not sure if what she had just experienced had been a dream and she had fallen asleep in the middle of her prayers, or if she had been gifted with a vision of some sort—but she remembered the dream as clearly as if she had just experienced it, and rising from her prostration upon the carpet, she wondered at the manner in which the story that was playing out every time she slept was weaving her and the mysterious boy together. And the horses—she still did not understand the significance.

Opening her eyes, she looked up at the mighty head of Tash, its powerful eye a gaping hole that stared into the balcony where her room was situated. White daylight illuminated the entire Temple, and the incense the priests burned at Tash’s feet filled the shifting breeze with the scent of roses. It was strange to think that only a few days before, Rabadash’s body had burned in that very place.

Aravis closed her eyes again, sitting with her legs crossed beneath her, relishing in the momentary peace. She was acutely aware of her own breath, and the pumping blood in her veins, and murmuring soundlessly she spoke to Tash.

“What do you want from me?”

She prostrated again, murmuring the prayers she had recited her entire life, and some more verses which she had learned only as Tisroc, for they were used by the Tisroc only. Her ancestors had sat in this very spot, praying to Tash during their rule; had they wished for the same things she did? Had they begged for blessings to fall upon the Empire?

Most likely not. She thought again of Rabadash and his clawing fingers, and of Adeben Tisroc’s hanged wives.

As her prayer concluded, she straightened once more and looked into the gigantic eye of Tash and his open beak.

“You have invested me with power,” she murmured. “Grant me the power to defeat those who seek to defeat me, so that I may serve you well.”

And in her mind’s eye, she saw again the mare’s intelligent eyes, and heard the roar of the lion in the distance, and saw the lights of Tashbaan shining like lanterns in the night.

She straightened and drew in a deep breath. Her arms, bared in the privacy of the curtained area, seemed to glow in the white sunlight. The scar on her chest, barely grazing her clavicle, shone brighter than the rest.

Rising, she pulled her tunic closer and draped the shawl about her body, partly covering her hair. The bracelets on her arms shivered and jingled.

She emerged from behind the curtains and found herself beside four members of her Guard, who immediately stood to attention. Slipping on her shoes, she was escorted down a spiral staircase and out of the side entrance to the Temple, which was used only by the inhabitants of the palace. A few Princes were there, last among the the eighteen sons of Adeben Tisroc, who had little hope of ever ascending to the throne. They stood back in deference, but Aravis did not miss the wary looks they threw her. She wondered if any of the Tashkhid were nearby, whispering words of dissension among their ranks, amidst the tinkling waters of the garden’s fountains.

She was escorted past the arches that led into the Temple of Tash, and when she looked over her shoulder, all she could see of the towering statue of Tash was one clawed foot.

Badrih and Aya waited nearby, and joined Aravis on the walk out into the gardens. It seemed to Aravis that Badrih stood taller, now, less weighed down by the burden of a husband.

“Prince Khalid was seen leaving the Tashkhid’s quarters,” Badrih murmured, low enough to remain unheard by any spectators.

“He seemed angry,” Aya added, casting a look around.

“Good,” Aravis replied.

A litter was brought to her, and she climbed onto the satin cushions and braced herself against the sides as slaves lifted her up onto their shoulders. The curtains were closed, and she was hidden from the world, drenched in the reddish light that filtered through the fabric around her. She opened a flap at the front, and gazed out of the woven grid that provided a window to the street. Behind her, the other two women were lifted onto their own litters.

The small procession began to move. She could see the heads of the slaves before her, and beyond the large arches that led from the Temple to the palace, heavily guarded. Two men with white turbans lingered by the entrance, and Aravis held herself stiffly, as if they could see her through the curtains.

Suddenly stricken by a thought, she reached out for the bell that had been set on the litter beside her and rang it loudly.

The procession stopped, and she heard Chlamash’s Tarkaan’s footsteps approach the litter. He was captain of the Guard. “To hear is to obey.”

“Bear me out the city gates,” she ordered, and in her mind’s eye she could again see Shasta, his golden hair shining in the moonlight, on the hills just outside Tashbaan.

“Forgive me, O ineffable Tisroc, but I must protest—it is not safe to roam such populated streets; you will be recognized.”

“Lessen the number of my escort, then, and send my ladies to the palace. Let me seem like any Tarkheena travelling to the Southern beaches.”

Chlamash seemed to hesitate, but did not dare voice his disagreement again. “To hear is to obey.”

Through another flap, she watched Badrih and Aya’s litters bear them away to the palace. She knew they would be concerned; there was no reason for her to roam the city. But Aravis could not help herself.

The streets had not been swept as they had been on the day of the Midsummer Offering, and so all Tarkaans and Tarkheenas were borne upon litters as usual, with heralds announcing their passing to the crowds. Even as Khasik, Aravis had loathed venturing into Tashbaan’s narrow streets—the eyes of the people, their loud voices, and the rancid smells of the alleys and markets were too much to bear, especially in contrast to the cushioned, sinister quietness of the palace. Aravis loathed both places; she would much rather be in the grassy plains of Calavar—or even riding Hwin away, through seas and deserts, as she had been doing in the dream.

They reached the Southern Gate, parting the crowds as a ship crossing a river, and Aravis could hear the cries of the people as they pressed themselves against the walls to make space for the procession. The guards beside the tall gateway stood to attention as she passed, and joined the furthermost members of Aravis’ guard in forcing any wandering peasant away.

Aravis ignored the commotion, and gently parted the curtains, looking at the crowd outside. From the way the litter was positioned, she could not see much beyond the gates, but through the mesh of the flap on its furthest side, she could see a long line of farmers and merchants crossing the bridge.

There did not seem to be any war horses.

But something was different, she felt, as she looked about the crowds the peered at her even as they shuffled through the streets on their own business. There was a certain way that they glanced up at her, which resembled suspicion more than curiosity.

She must have calculated the time correctly—if the children had truly found themselves at the edge of the creek the night before, when the moon had been low in the sky and bright enough to be seen clearly, then it was likely that they would appear around the time Aravis herself was there. And Tash had sent her the vision… they _must_ be among the crowds.

The eyes of the people followed her. Mostly concealed by her shawl and the folds of the curtains, it was impossible for her to be recognized. Perhaps the children would be moved by the same curiosity, and Tash’s will would bring them together at last—

“O my mistress,” muttered Chlamash at her side, and he sounded tense. “Permit us to bear you away from this unseemly place.”

Aravis hesitated. But as she looked around her, she saw only strange, dirty faces she had never seen before, neither in dreams nor in waking, and their eyes were narrowed with expressions that made her uneasy.

The noises on the street had lulled, and suddenly she could feel the full weight of the street’s gazes on her. Through the shadows the sun threw upon the litter, she could tell that Chlamash’s hand was resting on the hilt of his scimitar.

“Very well,” she said, though her eyes continued to scan what she could see of the crowds. It did not seem fair, that she should have so strong a feeling without any confirmation of its validity. But she sighed. “Bear me away.”

And for a moment it seemed that the rest of the journey would pass with nothing of consequence, until suddenly there was a cry, sharp even amidst the rabble of the crowds that pressed close against the city walls on either side of them. Aravis heard it as if the words were spoken beside her very ear, despite the fact that they came from some distance away.

“It’s _her_! The Usurper is among us!”

They were in a narrow passage between buildings, and there was no longer any sun to project shadows upon the litter drapes. Indeed, they were not needed. Aravis felt what happened as clearly as if she were watching it unfold before her. First there was a hush, a pause of tension, like a bowstring before the arrow is unleashed — and then cries erupted, and the masses pounced.

Too late, Aravis realize the effect the Tashkhid had had on the people. She had underestimated the power Zoshrud’s words had from the pulpit, and the willingness of the people to despise her. Before she even had time to draw a breath, the sound of steel rang about her as her Guard’s weapons were drawn. She suddenly felt no more useful than a sack of wheat born on the shoulders of the slaves.

The litter tilted, and she could hear cries all about her. For a moment she feared that one of the slaves had been hurt and that she would fall to her death. Had she not armed herself with a dagger? She was a fool — a fool who would soon be dead. Then the litter straightened and she was being moved through the street with quick urgency.

She could hear Chlamash ahead, calling out orders to his men, and as the litter suddenly swerved, Aravis gripping the frame to avoid falling into the arms of the masses, the curtain slid open.

People were screaming. Men — farmers, merchants, beggars — crowded just beyond the perimeter held by the Guard, arms raised in anger as they cried out in fury. Some women also joined in, even mothers with children pressed to their breasts as they called out harsh words with twisted delight. Aravis could not, in the moment, comprehend the words that escaped their mouths; she had eyes only for the man who suddenly pushed past the Guard and sprinted towards her litter.

There was a sharp noise of hissing air, and something warm splattered over Aravis’ face and clothes.

The man’s severed head rolled on the stones by the slaves’ feet, its toothless mouth still open in a ghastly cry.

Suddenly there was a sound of thundering hooves, and for a moment it seemed to Aravis that perhaps the children had appeared after all, for the pace was that of a war horse… and perhaps this was the way in which she was fated to encounter the young boy with golden hair…

Ishamiel Tarkaan rode into the fray, his steed springing over recoiling merchants, its coat glistening with sweat as the citizens of Taashban fell back in fear. His expert hand maneuvered the reins until he was standing between Aravis and the space from which the dead man had come, and the other held his scimitar at the ready, black eyes meeting Aravis’ for a fleeting moment before he turned towards Chlamash.

It was all the help they needed. Newly invigorated, the Guard pressed together around Aravis’ litter and she was borne away at a running pace. Two men, servants of Ishamiel, had come behind him, also riding on steeds of his House. They flanked Aravis’ sides, obstructing her view from the shouting crowds which had renewed their cries once more, though they seemed reluctant to challenge the procession. Ishamiel rode to the front.

Aravis raised a shaking hand to her face. It came away with angry, red blood.

While the journey from the Temple to the city gates had been harrowing and full of noise, the journey away from them felt infinitely longer. Instead of the shrill cries of merchants, a sinister silence abounded. From what little Aravis could see beyond the half-open curtains of the litter and the stirrups of Ishamiel’s rider, the crowds huddled close together, eyes following them, their shouts lowered to murmurs.

Suddenly they took a sharp turn, and Aravis stiffened. They were not going to the Palace. A strange, irrational fear suddenly gripped her — until she recognized the tall archway of Lasaraleen Tarkheena’s palace, and the cobbled streets gave way to marble.

They stopped beneath the canopy of the pillared entrance, the sound of fountains about them, and there was a small scuffle as startled slaves rushed forwards with carpets to pave the way inside. Aravis was very familiar with the place. In the days when Rabadash was in his better moods, she had often spent entire days in the freedom of Lasaraleen’s spacious home, which lacked the overcrowded, dangerous aura of the Tisroc’s Palace.

The slaves carrying the litter crouched, and Aravis gathered her shaking limbs and stepped out onto the soft carpet, Chlamash’s hand appearing at her side to guide her down.

She ignored it.

Lasaraleen was nearly tripping over her own feet when she emerged. Her eyes were wide and distressed, and she lacked the usual jewels Aravis saw her in — their appearance had taken her by surprise. Behind her came bounding two small creatures — a little girl, hardly over two years old, and a boy of four.

“What happened?!” she cried, eyes glancing at the assembled Guard and coming to stop on Aravis’ face in shock. Without looking away, she extended an arm towards the nursemaid which had followed closely behind her. “Take them away,” she said sharply.

“Aunt Aravis!” Lasaraleen’s son exclaimed excitedly, despite the nursemaid’s look of abject horror. He was soon gathered along with his younger sister and they were swept off into another wing of the house.

Aravis had not moved. Slowly uncoiling the tension in her body, she realized that Ishamiel was standing right beside her, his eyes searching her face. Lasaraleen was soon at their side, reaching out to pull Aravis’ shawl away. For a moment, Aravis felt less like a Tisroc and more like a child, shorter than the other two and being eyed with critical worry.

“Are you hurt?”

Ishamiel’s urgent tone of voice startled her out of her thoughts, and Aravis frowned. “Of course not.” But as soon as the words left her lips, she realized what a sight she must be — her face was dotted wih red, and she reached up her arms to rub away the horrible stains. She swallowed. “The blood is not mine.”

Chlamash stood on the marble steps with a rag in hand, gingerly wiping the blood off his scimitar.

“Oh, thank Tash the Almighty!” Her initial preoccupation dispelled, Lasaraleen seemed to stumble backward, a hand to her forehead. “I did fear the worse — and so few of your Guard, too!”

“There was something of a stir in the marketplace,” Ishamiel told her grimly. “I advised the Guard to bring us here, as your husband’s home is a more secure location than the streets, whilst we await a larger company. I did not want to risk the journey back at this time.”

“Well, of course,” Lasaraleen replied rather shakily. “My husband will be honored to know you have chosen our abode to be your sanctuary. You _must_ tell me what happened… but first let us sit down, I worry I might faint.”

Ishamiel threw the Tarkheena a look of mild irritation before calling one of the slaves to his side. Aravis realized that only one of his men remained in the company that had escorted her. The other must have gone up to the Palace to bring more people.

The rancid smell of the street beggar’s blood suddenly hit her, and she battled a sudden onslaught of nausea even as she began the walk inside. She was immensely thankful that Badrih and Aya had not followed her out into the city.

Once seated, a soft towel and a basin of warm, rose-scented water were brought for her, and two maidservants began to gently scrub the blood off her arms and face. Aravis grimaced beneath their trembling, inexperienced hands — they feared being so near to the Tisroc, and she felt too sick to tolerate much frivolity. Once the blood was gone she dismissed them with a wave, and  moved away with some relief.

Ishamiel was pacing back and forth again, refusing to touch the drink that had been brought for him. Though he had shed his riding gloves and cloak, his scimitar was still fastened to his hip, and he fingered the hilt restlessly. Lasaraleen sat curled up on the couch, eyeing Aravis constantly but no longer attempting to comfort her with needless pats on the arm, which Aravis had quickly discouraged.

Chlamash had come and gone, his account of what had happened complete, and was now joining in an impromptu meal with the rest of the Guard in the garden.

“The Tashkhid ought to be executed for what they have wrought.” Aravis said, breaking the silence.

“The people’s actions cannot be traced to them.”

“They called me _Usurper_ ,” Aravis snapped, looking up at Ishamiel, the words the people had shouted suddenly clear in their mind. “Is that not what they were saying in the Temple?”

“Such a thing is blasphemy,” Lasaraleen murmured.

“And ultimate hypocrisy,” Aravis said, grinding her teeth and lowering her voice slightly. “They did not say that about Rabadash, even when his three elder brothers were mysteriously assassinated.”

The wide, pillared area was empty save a few servants in corners far from them, and their words could not have carried, but nonetheless, Ishamiel halted his pacing and gave her a warning look.

She crossed her arms before her and returned it with a stony glare. “Do not chastise me, Tarkaan.”

“I would not dare to do so, O Tisroc,” he said through his teeth. “But forgive me if I question why such a small company escorted the leader of our Empire out into the unruly streets of this city — such a lack of judgement on Chlamash Tarkaan’s part ought to be punished.”

Aravis shifted uncomfortably on the cushions. “It was on my orders.”

Ishamiel said nothing. Perhaps he knew that the words he wanted to say were not appropriate to be addressed to the Tisroc. Aravis fought the urge to look away from the two of them.

“But _why_?” Lasaraleen, ever forgetting the lines between friendship and deference, asked quietly. “It was so _unsafe_ —”

“Yes, I am aware of that.”

“But where were you going—?”

“I took my own council,” Aravis interrupted. “My mission was my own.”

Again, she saw the face of the golden-haired boy, upturned towards the North… and the startlingly intelligent eyes of her mare, staring directly into hers.

“Very well,” Ishamiel relented, though Aravis could tell he was not pleased in the least.

Lasaraleen was still looking at her oddly, as if she suspected the story Aravis was keeping from her. In an effort to move the conversation away from her own mad visions, Aravis repeated her previous remark. “They called me _Usurper_.”

“They are operating under the Tashkhid’s misguided council.”

“But this is unheard of! Such a title was never even given to Ilgamuth Tisroc when he beheaded his own brother before the Temple of Tash. How dare they speak up against me?” She sighed. “It’s because I am a woman, isn’t it?”

The other two looked at her uncomfortably. Then Ishamiel shifted, his fingers moving away from the hilt of his scimitar to cross his arms in front of him.

“It is because they do not fear you.”

Aravis frowned. “Because I am a woman.”

“Yes. And because so far in your rule you have done nothing to assert the force of your punishment.”

“Chlamash just _beheaded_ a man in the center of the market!”

“That is not enough!” Ishamiel’s dark eyes flashed. “Tarkaans are warriors, men accustomed to the violence of battle. The Tashkhid are drunk on power and the adoration of the people. The men of Calormen flog unruly slaves within their own homes. Do you think a Tisroc can keep them, without showing that same force?” His tone softened slightly. “I do not blame you for your inexperience — you have been a Tarkheena for most of your life, and shielded greatly from the aggressive tendencies of men; but this position has always been occupied by a man, and if it lacks the forceful will that led it from the inception of the Empire, the people will find it lacking.”

But Aravis’ eyes were burning.

“Do not, for a _second_ ,” she began, her voice shaking with anger. “Imply that I do not know the aggression of men. I have known it more intimately than you have, I’d wager — raw and beast-like as it is.”

“I merely meant—”

She flew to her feet, the bracelets on her arms shuddering from the movement. She stepped up to Ishamiel, so close that he fell back. “You knew your brother, did you not?”

“Tisroc—”

“Apologize,” she commanded, her tone rising. Lasaraleen glanced anxiously towards the open doors that led to the yard, her eyes wide, but Aravis ignored her. Her hands were curled into fists. “Apologize, or I _will_ show you the punishment those of your kin dispose for their servants with such glee.”

Ishamiel swallowed, lips pressed into a thin line. Surprise still remained in his eyes, mingled with resentment. He held Aravis’ gaze. He was much taller than her, his arms now unfolded, but then he stepped back. Falling to his knees, he bowed, the tip of his helm glinting in the light of the lunge.

“I apologize for my offense, O Tisroc, and beg your forgiveness. I spoke wrongly and for this I repent.”

Lasaraleen was clutching a cushion anxiously, but did not dare say a word.

Slowly, Aravis fell back into the couch, folding her shaking hands over each other and trying to regain mastery over her own emotions. For a second Ishamiel’s dark eyes and chiseled cheekbones, shared by the entirety of his family, had transformed him into Rabadash himself — leering down at her, his sharp nails digging into her wrists—

She drew a breath and looked away from him. Silently, Ishamiel rose to his feet once more, standing further than he had been earlier. As she watched him resume his pacing about the room, his brow furrowed, she wondered at what made him take the risks he was taking. What could possibly move a Prince that enjoyed the comforts of a Tisroc’s bloodline, if not the prestige of those closest to the throne, to forsake the safety of his position and enlist in what had to be the most revolutionary rule in Calormene history? He had nothing to gain, and everything to lose. He had children of his own.

“I will not emulate the contemptible attitudes of the men of this Empire,” she said quietly, at last. “I am not a man, and so to rid us of this disease is both a blessing and a responsibility, that my leadership not be known for its decadence.”

She met Lasaraleen’s eyes. She was still clutching the cushion, and her eyes were much graver than usual. Aravis hadn’t explained the details of her years inside the palace to anyone — Lasaraleen knew some things, and the other wives had known already. But now, looking at her in the uncomfortable intensity of the room, Aravis wondered how much she had guessed.

“Warriors, leaders, slave-drivers,” Aravis continued pensively, turning back to Ishamiel and meeting his eyes, no longer burning with anger. “And yet they are so keen to feel fear.”

…

“Our fortifications fell upon the first onslaught of the Calormenes, and were further wrecked when the survivors passed through on their return. As Your Majesty knows, the villagers in Browton are ever loyal, and many of our own fell in the name of the King as Rabadash passed through. But the walls are fallen and our forces greatly reduced, and in the event of the war—”

“There is no war,” Cor interrupted.

The old man, representing the greater body of farmers and millers in Brownton, immediately pressed his mouth shut with a snap, eyes downcast. He rubbed his hands nervously against his tunic and bowed again. “Forgive me, Your Majesty.”

Cor sighed and glanced at Myn and Darrin, who were looking at him with mixes of grim acceptance and slight alarm. Corin’s words rang in his mind again, and he turned back to the rest of the audience — villagers scattered about the throne room, clutching parcels or children and shivering slightly in the cool draft of the large hall — to see expectant eyes on him. They were only awaiting confirmation.

“Has it truly become so bad that the people take a new war for granted already?” he asked, looking around the room. “I myself have breathed no word of one.”

The old man licked his lips and bowed once more apologetically. “There are rumors of it, Sire,” he said reluctantly. “And after the tragic passing of King Lune — the villagers cannot be blamed for their fears in this time of loss.”

Cor held his gaze for a moment in silence. Then he raised a hand and made a gesture to Cole.

Immediately, Cole sprang forward, waving an arm towards the rest of the people who crowded some feet before the dais, in front of where the old man awaited. “Back!” he announced. “Swiftly, to the furthest wall, until the King calls upon you!”

The crowds stepped  backwards quickly, moving to the furthest wall beside the large doors, glancing at each other nervously. From the throne, Cor could not hear their mutterings or the words Cole addressed to individuals as he ushered them towards the back. It was not quite private enough, but it would have to do. He called the Brownton man forwards. Awkwardly, the villager made his way up the first few steps and knelt only a few feet away from Cor.

“Tell me,” Cor asked in a low voice, glancing towards the people at the back of the room to confirm that they could not hear the words exchanged. “How many of the men in Brownton have forsaken the fields in favor of the wild lands of the West?”

“None, Your Majesty.”

“And the women? The children?”

The old man swallowed, hesitating before speaking. “One hundred, Sire. They left at the break of dawn.”

Cor stared at him, aghast. Varlin, scribbling on parchment at the King’s right, bowed his head lower over his notes, no doubt to hide the shock that Darrin and Myn had been unable to hide.

“One hundred?” Darrin echoed in a low voice.

“The millers deemed it best to send them now. To transport loads of grain well into the mountains and secure the safety of the women and children would be a week’s journey, for the load is too heavy for horses to carry any faster. The men have remained to man the fields and mills — but also to stand our ground when — if,” the man interrupted himself quickly. “Calormen strikes.”

Jaw clenched, Cor turned to the members of the Council. Myn was shaking his head slowly and Darrin’s eyes were fixed on the stone floor.

The people were now one step ahead of them — they had already proceeded into hopelessness.

“One of Lord Myn’s assistants will discuss with you the materials that must be provided. Your walls will be rebuilt, and they will hold.” Lord Myn nodded quickly and called one of his men to his side. Cor held the old man’s gaze. “Convey my deepest sympathies to the people of Brownton for their losses, and my gratitude for their staunch loyalty. I will not fail them.”

“Thank you, Sire. Thank you.”

“There is no war as of yet. Let us not fall into senseless fear.”

As the man retreated, bowing yet again, Darrin and Myn drew closer.

“Inquire as to how much grain they are transporting to the mountains,” Cor told Myn. “Brownton is our main provider and Anvard cannot be left without supplies. If fifty have indeed left, then what they have carried is meant to sustain them in case a siege befalls us.”

Darrin’s eyebrows were drawn with concern . “Or to barter safe passage into Telmar.”

Cor took a deep breath. Looking towards the crowd that was still assembled beyond Cole’s imposing figure, he waved a hand. The next villager stepped forwards.

.

After dinner, Lord Myn brought a second piece of bad news.

“Galma and the Lone Islands have severed ties with us. They will halt trade with Archenland until further notice.”

Cor let out an exclamation of frustration. The seat across from him, normally occupied by Corin, was empty. No doubt his brother was still angry because of the conversation they had had the day before. For all his annoyance at Corin’s immaturity in the face of Cor’s difficult position, Cor couldn’t help wishing he was there, if only to insult Galma and the Lone Islands for their betrayal. Lord Myn’s soft voice was too calm for the abruptness of the news.

“Why?”

“‘ _Given the instability rampant upon Western shores, the Kingdom of Galma finds itself in the difficult position of halting trade between our nations, until the dispute between North and South is settled. King Reghorius extends a cordial hand to the noble heir of King Lune’s mighty legacy, and expresses his full confidence in King Cor’s capable hands, upon which has been entrusted the burden of our sister Kingdom._ ”

“Empty flattery,” Cor said darkly. “King Reghorius has always been a coward when it comes to picking sides.”

“He is afraid of making an enemy out of Calormen. 

“Of course he is,” Cor scowled. “What of the Governor of the Lone Islands? Surely Narnia has not halted trade with us as well?”

“Nay, Narnia has sent no word. But despite his subordination to King Peridan, the Governor does have authority on what comes out of Narrowhaven. His letter was significantly less flattering.”

Cor pushed his chair back from the table, staring down the carcass of the turkey which had been cleared during the meal. He crossed his arms in front of him, feeling once again the pounding pain of a headache blooming behind his eyelids. “They are preparing for a war,” he muttered. “And the Tisroc hasn’t even made a move yet.”

Myn said nothing for a moment, and Cor focused his energies on containing his temper, which was really only a more angry manifestation of the panic he was starting to feel. Archenland might survive without luxuries imported from Galma and the Lone Islands, but if Narnia ceased trading with them, they might have to resort to rationing.

But he was king now, and the stability of the country would greatly depend on the stability of his mood.

There was a knock on the door. A servant appeared, bowing low before speaking. “A guest has arrived for you, Your Majesty.”

Lord Myn, as if seizing the opportunity to leave the somber confinements of the dining room, bowed and excused himself. Cor nodded to the servant, and presently soft footsteps approached.

A plump, elderly woman entered, offering Cor a smile.

“Nurse Aida!” Cor jumped to his feet and rushed to her, hugging her tightly. As she hugged him back with a low chuckle, he felt sudden relief course through him, the familiarity of her presence easing some of the fear of his new predicament.

“I am not convinced that a King ought to go about hugging a mere nurse,” she said with a grin, her expressive eyebrows rising with amusement. She looked him over from head to foot, holding him at arm’s length, and though her smile remained he could see serious concern in her eyes. “By the Lion, you are no longer the little boy I raised.”

“I can hug anyone I please,” Cor said impudently. “And you are family. But it’s too soon… your leave is for much longer.”

“I couldn’t stay,” Nurse Aida said, and Cor noticed the new wrinkles that lined her face, which hadn’t been there before the Battle of Anvard. Her tears had never fallen easily, staunch and hardened as she was, though outwardly kind and full of humor, and her strength had not diminished with the loss of her son in the battle. King Lune had never trusted any other nurse to care for his sons. “The house feels empty without him — and I must try and forget my grief with the joy of my other children, hard as that might be.” She glanced about the room. “Where is Corin?”

Cor didn’t even have to say anything before she fixed him with a look.

“You quarrelled?”

“ _He_ quarreled with _me_.”

She sighed and glanced beyond the open door to make sure no one was listening, and then followed Cor back to the chairs, where he slumped against the table with a sigh. “He doesn’t agree with the way—”

“You must be patient with him,” the nurse interrupted pointedly. “He has lost his father.”

“So have I!” Cor exclaimed indignantly. “And on top of that I now have to rule a country! And I keep having _dreams_ —”

“You and I both know that Corin has always been more sensitive to grief. It is his nature. He will come around eventually, once he has had time to think.” She reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder. “And you are doing marvelously. Your father would be proud.”

Cor averted his gaze and blinked away the tears that suddenly threatened to fall. He found himself unable to reply.

He thought he heard thunder in the distance, and looked out the window to see grey clouds hanging low over the rooftops, blocking the city’s view of the Northern mountains. It had not rained in some time; perhaps the new vigor for the crops would prove useful.

He wondered if it would create trouble for the women and children in their journey West. He wondered what they were thinking.

His headache intensified.

“Dreams?” Nurse Aida asked presently, perhaps to save him the embarrassment of falling apart in front of her.

He cleared his throat, tearing his eyes away from the window and taking a deep breath. “Yes… it’s nonsense, really.”

“But they worry you, evidently.”

“It’s more confusing than anything else,” he replied, shaking his head. “I have never dreamt so vividly. I can remember the city I saw last night very clearly, even now… the people on the streets, the smells and sounds, the outline of the rooftops. It is as if it were a real memory.”

He had been travelling by foot alongside the girl — Aravis — dressed in rags and leading Horses through the crowded streets. A man had struck him, but they had carried on.

Cor looked up at Nurse Aida, frowning. “We were travelling… to the North.”

“North of where?”

“I don’t know. But I distinctly remember… _to the North_.”

And Aravis, with fear and pride intermingling in her eyes.

The nurse’s words cut through his thoughts. “Have you been there before?”

Cor shook his head. “Never. I would remember. There was a giant silver-plated dome in the center of the city… and palm trees, and the men were dark-skinned and dressed with sashes. When they opened the gates of the city, loud horns made the ground rumble. It was nothing like any place I’ve ever been to.”

“That’s because you’ve never been to Tashbaan.”

They both looked up to see Corin standing in the doorway. He seemed to have just arrived, which was a good thing, because Cor knew he wouldn’t take well to knowing they had been speaking about him. His face was still a grim mask, and his arms were crossed in front of him, but when he met Nurse Aida’s eyes a smile appeared on his face.

She got up from her seat and went to greet him, but Cor paid little heed to the words they exchanged, suddenly gripped with a strong feeling of recognition. Tashbaan… the word rang in his ears as if he was well familiarized with it. He knew of the Calormene capital, of course, but the sense of familiarity came as if that city in particular had been foremost in his mind; as if he had held conversations about it.

And he _had_. In his dream.

“Calormen?” he asked again, trying to hide his impatience for information as Corin placed an arm around their old nurse and teacher.

“Yes,” Corin replied rather stiffly, turning to him again at last, but at least he wasn’t yelling. “You didn’t come with me and Queen Susan and King Edmund last year because you were sick. But you’re describing Tashbaan. Why?”

Cor’s head swam. “I’ve never been there.”

“Silver dome, the horns at the gates… that’s Tashbaan.”

Incredulously, Cor leaned back in his seat, running through his memories of the dream. The news that the city was a real one was almost not surprising, and the fact only confirmed that what he had experienced in his visions went beyond any ordinary dreams he had had before. But why would he be receiving visions of such clarity? Why would Aslan mean for him to know what was taking place in another country, in _Calormen_?

Had _all_ of the visions been real?

Were there truly two children wandering through the streets of Tashbaan in search of the North, who needed his help?


	5. Chapter 5

 

_Her father-in-law’s body was a hulking shadow against the torchlight of the room. Clutching Lasaraleen’s wrist, both to keep her friend silent and to keep herself calm, Aravis watched the figure on the ground prostrate itself at the Tisroc’s feet._

_The air in the room was stuffy, the heavy perfume of the Tarkaans reaching into the corners of the room. Aravis’ entire body ached from the strain of crouching on the ground. The shadow of the Tisroc breathed, momentarily obscuring the prostrated figure from view._

_A voice spoke, beyond her line of sight, and the sound of it made Aravis shiver — because she knew the voice, dark and brooding. “Invade the thrice-accursed kingdom of Narnia and waste it with fire and sword and add it to your illimitable empire.”_

_And even as realization collided with Aravis’ mind, she was transported to a small palace room and to a raven perched upon a richly embroidered carpet. She could not see her body — only the demon raven as it spoke._

_“If the Tisroc goes by the great oasis he can never lead a great army across it into Archenland. For though they could reach the oasis by the end of their first day's march, yet the springs there would be too little for the thirst of all those soldiers and their beasts. But there is another way._

_"He that would find that way must start from the Tombs of the Ancient Kings and ride north-west so that the double peak of Mount Pire is always straight ahead of him. And so, in a day's riding or a little more, he shall come to the head of a stony valley, which is so narrow that a man might be within a furlong of it a thousand times and never know that it was there. And looking down this valley he will see neither grass nor water nor anything else good._

  _“But if he rides on down it he will come to a river and can ride by that water all the way into Archenland."_

  _In the stifling room again, the Tisroc shifted, and Prince Rabadash’s eyes shone bright and angry in the firelight._

 

...

Aravis jerked awake and was met with darkness.

Her knuckles were aching. She stretched her fingers and found that they had been clutching the sheets; sharp pain shot across them as she forced them open. The words of the demon were still perfectly clear in her mind — and so were Rabadash’s eyes, like dark entrances to her memories.

She turned and pressed her cheek to the coverlet. It smelled less of him now; she could almost forget that this had once been his bed. It was _hers_ now. She had earned it. She had watched him die, and she had survived him.

When she had been younger, she had watched the servants kill a snake in the courtyard from the terrace above. Father had found her there, and they had watched the servants battle with the large coiling creature for some time. _Observe, my daughter,_ he had told her, _how man, while gifted with four limbs, must struggle to defeat a creature that has none at all. It is the snake that, deprived of all but its own head, finds in itself the strength to fight the largest enemies._

A sudden noise startled her. She stretched her neck to look up, towards where the window looked out onto the city. There were no stars tonight; the sky was a grey-black slate that threatened to scrape against the Temple minarets.

The noise she had heard seemed to come from the tiles below, and before Aravis could make sense of it, she saw a dark shape, like a great black spider, make its way onto the windowsill.

Instantly, her heart was pounding. The Guard must be somewhere near — but even as the thought came to her, the figure grew, and a man’s outline stood stark against the sky, blocking the dim light of the city from the room. Taking advantage of the momentary darkness, she allowed her hand to move across the covers to the edge of the mattress, fingers coming in contact with the cold floor. And then, cold steel.

The figure had already entered the room completely, and as it stepped nearer to the bed, Aravis heard the soft slide of metal. The footsteps were entirely silent, cushioned by the carpet, and even the noise of the scimitar sheath falling to the ground was drowned in the tapestries, from where gods and monarchs alike seemed to watch expectantly. Aravis wasn’t sure who they were hoping might succeed.

When she saw the man’s shadow fall across the bed, she sprang to her feet.

It had been years since she had held a sword. The Tisroc’s wives were forbidden to carry any manner of weapons, and the sword at her side had merely been left there at her insistence. The last time she had fought had been in the courtyard of her father’s home, imitating the moves she remembered from her older brother.

But as she rose from the bed and stepped away from the mattress, her foot pulled the thin carpet towards her, and the assassin standing at its edge stumbled. Though his sword rose in the air, she had the advantage — from this angle, she could see him clearly against the dim light from the window. He was blinded by the curtain of his own shadow.

She thrust the blade towards him and the impact of his block sent reverberations of pain down her arm. Her heart was pounding, her arms moving of their own accord, and suddenly she could see the line of her blade cut through the air, and warm blood spattered against her face and chest as the sword buried itself in the man’s jugular.

There was a loud _clang_ of steel as his sword fell to the ground. It was swallowed by the walls, and then there was silence.

Rabadash had called her a viper.

She was vaguely aware of running footsteps, and the door burst open to reveal four members of the Guard, swords raised. A lantern was brandished in their midst. The men’s eyes went wide as they took in the sight of her standing, bare arms and neck splattered with blood, sword still held in the air as she looked down at the severed head of the assassin.

.

“Forgive me, Tisroc, for my folly! For the gods have decreed that you live forever despite the failure of your servants.”

Badrih’s eyes had not moved from hers since the women had arrived in the room, and Aravis turned to spare a glance at Chlamash Tarkaan, who had thrown himself at her feet, despite his rank permitting him to remain standing before her. She had brushed away the slave girls, suddenly loath to be touched by anyone, and was busying herself with clearing the assassin’s blood from her skin with a linen rag.

“Do you recognize him?” she snapped at the captain. The body was being carried away by the guards.

He shook his head, nose brushing against the carpet, mere inches away from the puddle of blood. “None of my men have laid eyes on him before, O Tisroc. Doubtless he is a miscreant from the darkest hovels of the Empire.”

“Doubtless,” Aravis muttered rather scornfully to herself, and sat down upon a cushioned chair that had been prepared for her, tossing the rag to a side. Badrih was still watching her with concern, and Aya was trembling. Lasaraleen had not been informed of the situation; Aravis was not in the mood to deal with her dramatics.

“You ought to have had sentries watching the roofs as well,” she reprimanded Chlamash, as he remained on the floor. “See that it is done. Then I expect to be informed of the identity of the assassin, and who sent him.”

“To hear is to obey.”

“Set the severed head upon a spear and mount it at the foot of the Temple Square. Let it be known that to desire me harm is to issue one’s own death sentence.”

Chlamash retreated, looking as if he were glad he had escaped her presence alive. Rabadash would have had him killed for the crime.

As soon as the men had left the room, Badrih rushed forwards, Aya forgetting herself and grasping Aravis’ arm tightly. "Are you hurt? I cannot believe that it was you who killed him!”

Aravis resisted the urge to shake them off. “I’m all right. He did not hurt me.”

 “This is _their_ doing.”

 “I know.”

 She crossed her arms in front of her, and as if sensing her reticence, Aya withdrew her hands.

 “You mean the Tashkhid?” asked the younger girl, lowering her voice and glancing around them. The guards were out of earshot.

 “It would not surprise me,” Badrih murmured, looking at Aravis gravely. “You have powerful enemies, Aravis. You must be careful.”

Aravis closed her eyes. In her mind, she could again see Rabadash’s dark gaze, the outline of Adeben Tisroc’s lazy figure, and hear the sound of the demon’s words, its raven voice echoing in her ears as if she had only just heard it. It was as clear as if it had been a memory.

A shiver ran through her, so violent that Aya clutched at her again. “Aravis!”

She focused her sight on the flames of the lanterns, on the cool iron of the armrests of her chair, trying to ground herself in reality. He was not here. The assassin was dead.

And yet, the dream—

“Badrih,” she said, before she could stop herself.

“Yes?”

“I require a dream interpreter.” Aravis swallowed. “A _good_ dream interpreter — not one who spouts nonsense.” Badrih nodded, though her expression showed how taken aback she was at Aravis’ sudden earnestness when it came to spiritual scholars after years of scorning them. Before she could reply, Aravis raised a hand. “Do not bring me the fools the Tisroc and Tarkaans send for. I will know mere flattery when I hear it.”

And she knew a vision when she saw it — knew what was ominous when she heard it. And Rabadash’s voice had been clear and sharp, conjuring such force and power that it was impossible to escape.

_“Invade the thrice-accursed kingdom of Narnia and waste it with fire and sword and add it to your illimitable empire.”_

.

Through the day, again and again she found her thoughts drifting towards the dream. The memory of Rabadash was what haunted her the most, even more so than the memories, so altered in her dream, of the mare that cast its head between her heart and the blade. And yet she could not help but think of them all as part of the same narrative: of the Tisrocs, of the mare, of the yellow-haired boy and his plight…

She rubbed her forehead in an attempt to escape the headache that was gathering there, as the food before her steamed idly. She still could not put into words the feelings that lingered in the dreams of the boy and of the girl — or was it herself? But the mare…

She turned to the young man who crouched in a corner with a slate and rolls of parchment. He met her eyes before she had to call out to him.

“Write a letter to my father’s household,” she said. “I require the mare I rode as a child. If she has been sold, I will pay for the expense of buying her and bringing her to Tashbaan. I wish to have her in the palace as soon as possible.”

The secretary bowed rather awkwardly over the pile of parchment, pen flying in his hand.

Badrih was sitting at her side, although upon less cushions than Aravis, already halfway through her meal. She gave Aravis an odd look.

“What?”

“You have not written home like the rest of us since the day you came here.”

Aravis seized the side of bread from her dish and sank it into the sauce to avoid looking at Badrih. “I know.”

“Why the mare, of all things?”

“I wish to see my horse.”

She could feel herself trembling. She took a bite from her food more out of anxiety than hunger. Badrih remained silent for a moment before replying quietly. “You will not write to your brother?”

The words stung, but no more than they had every other time Badrih had spoken them. In the earliest months of Aravis’ confinement within the palace — within her marriage — Badrih had often urged her to write home. But Rafi had been only a very small child then, and there was no one else to write to, not after her father had betrayed her so cruelly.

Rafi had to be nearing his tenth year, now. Aravis could not even visualize what he must look like.

She kept her eyes still upon the dish in front of her. “There is nothing to say.”

Aini retrieved her lunch when she was done with it, just as a footman entered the hall and prostrated before her.

“Did you find them?” Aravis asked tersely, hands moving to take the scrolls that had been piled in a chest beside her. She had no doubt that they, like the few hundred before them, were letters from Tarkaans across the Empire, praising her for her victorious taking of the throne whilst they plotted treason behind her back.

“Kill me, O Tisroc, may you live forever,” cried the footman. “For I bring to your table unwelcome news.”

“So you did not find them.”

“O magnanimous Tisroc, the men searched the Southern walls and the streets of Tashbaan, indeed they went as far as the neighboring farmlands, but they found no trace of the children you described, nor have any Tarkaans reported missing steeds.”

Aravis sighed. She had been a fool for hoping. She ought to have known, the minute her own search had come to its fruitless, nearly deadly end, that the children had been nothing but a dream. Giving credit to such visions was foolish, especially considering the direness of her situation in reality. Indeed, it had proven to be dangerous.

Another chill ran through her. Rabadash’s eyes had been so angry, so full of hatred… there were still tales of Tisrocs who had visions of their ancestors, who spoke from beyond the grave. There were tales of men cursed for the hurt they had caused the deceased; people haunted by their enemies even after those had been vanquished…

Death seemed to follow each one of the dreams.

She dismissed the footman, who though relieved, hardly seemed to have meant anything by his plea of assisted suicide. Badrih slipped away shortly after.

Chlamash Tarkaan, situated far down the hall, away from the dais upon which she had been eating and was now reading scrolls, often turned and looked about the room warily, as if he expected assassins to jump out at any moment. Aravis hardly had the energy to be afraid of men; the dreams had been enough to unsettle her entirely.

When Badrih returned, bowing, hands clasped before her, Aravis put down the scrolls with some relief. “Did you find one?”

“Yes,” the woman replied, still looking rather bewildered at Aravis’ earnestness. “He awaits outside.”

“He may enter.”

The man that entered shortly after was an old hunchback, wispy white hair escaping the confines of his light blue turban. His beard trailed low upon his chest, and the clear blue eyes that stared up at her seemed partly blind. Aravis had a momentary urge to tell the guards to escort the man towards her — she feared he may collapse on the spot.

But the man reached the foot of the dais with no interruption, and knelt there. “Verily, blessed is this day, upon which Tash the Almighty has given this lowly servant a moment in the Tisroc’s presence, exalted beyond measure as she is.”

“I have not brought you here for cheap flattery,” Aravis snapped. “Speak to me no differently than you do to your clients, and I will reward you greatly. I seek wisdom; not poetry. What is your name?”

The man straightened slightly, as much as his back would allow him. “To hear is to obey. My name is Halim, son of Pharsim, who was praised East and West for his knowledge of the land of dreams, which lifted him from base birth to the company of the gods.” His voice was deep and slightly hoarse with age, but his words were spoken with conviction, and he held Aravis’ gaze — something hardly anyone dared do to the Tisroc. “Speak your vision, and I will listen, that haply Tash himself may grant through me the true meaning of what you have witnessed.”

It was clear that Badrih had not brought her a dream interpreter that was familiar with Palace ways. Aravis was pleased.

“Leave us,” she announced to the others.

Badrih and the guards stared at her blankly for a moment, until Aravis glared at them all. “Must I say it again?”

They left. Badrih eyed her strangely over her shoulder as the last guards closed the doors behind her, still confused about the meeting. The empty throne room felt much too large without them.

Aravis rearranged a cushion beside her and quelled the sudden nervousness that sprang within her. “Not a word exchanged here must leave this room,” she said. “If there is even a faintest rumor of what you hear today, my punishment will be severe.”

“I can assure you of my loyalty, O almighty Tisroc. I am an interpreter, not a gossip-monger.”

“Good. For what you will hear concerns more than myself.

“In my dream,” she began. “I overheard a conversation between my deceased husband and his father Adeben Tisroc (upon them be the peace of the gods). It seemed to me that they held secret council, and my husband urged his father to…” she paused. Halim remained silent, eyes downcast respectfully. She made up her mind. “To take a certain course of action as Tisroc and leader of our Empire. And when he spoke the words, it seemed to me that… that he _saw_ me, and spoke the words to me.”

“And in what capacity did you see yourself, O Tisroc? Were you greeted as Rabadash Tisroc’s noble successor, or perhaps as his wife?”

Aravis held back a bitter smile. “No. I crouched…” she swallowed. “As a child, hidden from their eyes.”

There was silence.

“There is more.” She let the words leave her in a rush, because she could not bear the silence. “I saw also a demon — a demon in the shape of a raven, which spoke instructions to carry out my husband’s bidding.” She looked away. “What do you make of this?”

“Beyond the imagery of the dream, it is your own impressions, Tisroc, which grant the vision its meaning. What exactly casts a shadow upon your heart? For the sun appears dark in your eyes.”

“I wonder if he is sending me an order— from beyond death.”

“It is not unheard of. For the Tisrocs of old were said to communicate between one another through the generations, by the will of Tash, the inexorable. Perhaps the secret council that you witnessed was an act of grace on the part of your mighty husband and his father, upon them be the peace of the gods. It may be a sign of the love your husband carried for you to his death.”

Aravis swallowed. A thin breeze wafted into the hall, making the thin curtains on the tall slits in the walls shiver. “I have sworn you to secrecy, Halim son of Pharsim,” she said.

“You have, O Tisroc.”

She took a deep breath. “Then know that my husband would never move a finger out of love or grace on my behalf, not even if Tash himself were to plead for my sake.” She crossed her arms tightly in front of her, hoping that her voice would not betray how shaken she felt. “It crosses my mind, therefore, that he wishes to haunt me, and that his orders are born of a desire to see me suffer, for I could see fire in his eyes.”

She held the interpreter’s gaze for a moment, and then the old man shook his head.

“Such spiritual connections cannot be born of hatred; although it is a powerful emotion, it is, nonetheless, earthly. Nay, such unions are born of love, or exist not at all. If you say that there was no love in your marriage, then a union of the minds on an individual level — from his spirit to your own — would be nigh impossible.”

“It is a meaningless dream, then?”

He shook his head slowly again. “Far from it, O Tisroc. For here is an unusual scene — where the spirits of North and South unite to issue a single command to the living.”

“I do not understand.”

“Demons in the shape of ravens are not at the service of the gods of Calormen. They come from the North, from the barbarian kingdoms, where animals speak and men walk with the legs of beasts.” Halim shook his head slowly. “Rabadash Tisroc was the North’s mortal enemy. Why would his words be supported by their demons?"

“They have united in ill will against me.”

A small smile made its way through Halim’s thick beard. “O Tisroc, fear not. Dreams are not born from ill will — they are our most ancient ties to the gods, our purest connection, incorruptible by earthly desires.” He frowned. “Tash has favored you, and Azaroth blessed you. The circumstances of coronation, so clearly coinciding with a change of seasons, and the realignment of constellations in the heavens, cannot be dismissed as mere coincidence. I do not know what you have been told by them, O Tisroc, but this is the will of the gods, beyond all other commands — for it transcends borders, and the affairs of men.”

Aravis’ heart was beating violently, in spite of herself. “Should I follow the order given to me, then?”

“That is not a choice for which I may speak,” he replied. “But humanity is weak, and the gods sometimes must intercede, for too often we go against the destiny set out for us, willingly or unwillingly.”

“Speak clearly.”

“An order, so clearly set out before the Tisroc of a great empire, can only be meant as such an intercession. Perhaps we have strayed, sometime in history, by the acts of one or of a few, a divergence in fates. Sometimes, when things go wrong, the heavens find a way to realign us — to fulfill the destiny of man at whatever cost.”

There was a sudden loud rumble as the doors of the hall opened, and Chlamash Tarkaan entered at a brisk pace. Aravis waved a hand and Halim fell silent instantly. Her heart was still pounding, and she glared at the man who entered.

“You were to remain outside.”

“Forgive me Tisroc, may you live forever, but the news is pressing and I was bid by the Grand Vizier to dispatch it at once.” He halted some feet behind the interpreter, eyes burning with some emotion Aravis could not decipher. “Zoshrud Tashkhad is dead.”

...

Sometime in the middle of the night, the door opened, and Cor turned to see Corin blearily blinking in the candlelight. He was scowling.

“Sunrise is in a few hours.”

Cor turned back to the scrolls that were piled over his bed, like some form of intricate bedspread. Candles had been stuck to the wooden bedframe, wax dripping down to the floor. He was dressed in his night clothes, but his expression was that of a man at his study, although he sat cross-legged amid pillows.

“I can’t sleep.”

Corin closed the door behind him and eyed the candles warily. “That’s how you start a fire.”

Cor shrugged. “I’ll put them out before I sleep.”

“You have meetings in the morning, Your Majesty,” his brother remarked sardonically.

Cor looked up at him and glared. “I have enough people to remind me of my schedule without your help.”

Corin shrugged, stomped over to the side of the bed and pulled out his bundle of blankets from beneath it, shaking them slightly to dislodge any stray spiders. Cor heard the muffled thud of his twin’s back on the floor as he pulled a new document towards him.

After a moment, Corin sighed. “What are you doing?”

“I’m reading about Calormen.”

“I could tell you all about it myself,” Corin said, an arm thrown over his eyes to block out the candlelight. “I’ve got their battle formations practically memorized. And it helps that I can’t get the bloody memory of them out of my head.”

A cold draft filtered through the gaps in the window frame, and the candlelight shivered. Cor could smell rain approaching from outside, slow but steady. He reached up to rub the weariness out of his eyes. “I slept early,” he began, and then swallowed. “Had another dream.”

Corin grunted noncommittally.

Even sitting on the bed surrounded by warm wrappings and pillows, and the familiar feel of parchment against his fingers, Cor could feel the dryness of the desert again.

_He awoke in the night to the ululating shrieks of jackals, so close that for a moment he believed they were right behind him. Paralyzed with fright, he could do nothing more than lie with his cheek pressed against stone, shoulder digging painfully into hardened sand, heart beating so loudly he felt that the beasts must be chasing the sound of it._

_Finally, the weight of his panic grew so heavy that he sat up abruptly, particles of sand slipping off his clothes. He blinked in the darkness, watching the thin moonlight spread out across the flat horizon, the distant mountains only darkened patches in the starry sky. The shrieks sounded again, even closer, and he turned wildly, feeling suddenly small and powerless, unarmed and bare against the desert and its inhabitants._

_Tall shadows rose up around him, like a silent audience of hundreds, and he felt his heart shiver within him, almost more frightened at such silence than at the screaming of the beasts. His heart stuttered to a stop._

_Suddenly, the roar of a lion shook the very air._

Cor felt his hands tremble at the memory of it. The feel of the parchment brought him back to reality. “There were tombs,” he continued. “In the desert. I’ve been reading about them — they’re real.”

For a moment he wondered if his brother had fallen asleep, but then Corin’s voice was heard, muffled from the floor. “I know. Saw them on my way in and out of Tashbaan… odd-looking things.” He paused, and then turned over, meeting Cor’s eyes. “You’re really dreaming about them?”

Cor nodded. Then he sighed and, closing his eyes momentarily, spoke again. “I saw the Lion.”

Corin blinked, staring at him with reddened eyes. “ _The_ Lion?”

“Yes,” Cor looked away. “It was — just an outline in the desert, but…”

“They’re just dreams, Cor.”

Cor’s gaze snapped to his brother. “How  can you say that? I haven’t even _been_ to Tashbaan. How could I know so many details about it? I’ve been reading—” he gestured towards the pile of documents. “Everything is accurate. And the Lion…” he sighed again. “It feels like a message.”

Corin snorted. “What, like the Kings of old?” He shifted and rolled over again. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

Scowling, and trying not to feel as hurt as Corin’s dismissal made him feel, Cor closed the scroll he had in front of him. “It’s not ridiculous when the Lion is involved.”

His brother let out another huff from the ground.

Cor frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Corin let out a sigh of frustration and turned over. When he met Cor’s eyes, his were bloodshot and angry. “Why did He take them back? If He knew this was going to happen — why did He take them back? If the Four had been on the throne, Rabadash wouldn’t have dared attack us—”

“You don’t know that.”

Corin’s face was flushed, his tone cold in a way Cor had only begun to hear from him since their father had died. It frightened him. “When the Four came back, Father said it was a sign from Aslan; that the North’s suffering had ended. And how many years did that last? A little over a decade? Now they are torn from us and Archenland will fail alongside Narnia. If that was meant to be our fate, then why bring back the Four at all?” His eyes were glistening with tears. “I’ve lost five people I loved in the space of a month. I know you want think this is all a part of something… but I can’t find that in me.” He fell back down on the blanket and turned away, his back towards his brother.

“I’m sorry you have to be the King,” he said.

 _The last King_ , Cor knew he meant. He looked down and found that his hands were shaking over the parchment. He blinked away the tears that were pooling in his eyes, and wished he could blame them on the flickering candlelight. Another draft of chill wind shot through the room, but he barely felt it.

He wished desperately that he had the words to reject Corin’s ideas, to deny the feeling that Aslan had indeed abandoned them. But he could not, not now, sitting alone in the night, trying to pretend that he didn’t know that his twin was spilling silent tears onto the floor, looking down at reports and studies of Calormene cities and armies… at the sheer _size_ of them, the stories of sprawling regiments, four thousand men, eight thousand men, twelve thousand men… at their cruel beaked god, sharp talons upraised, as if it were prepared to pounce on its prey… at the stories of Tisroc after Tisroc murdering their family members, ravenous for power, birthing hundreds of children to be raised with the same bloodthirst in their hearts…

He reached up and pressed his palms to his head, willing himself to take deep breaths and make no noise. He wished he could still hear the roar of the Lion in his ears, even if the sound terrified him. He longed for someone else to cling to—for someone to know the solution, even if it was never told to him. For someone else to be the authority in the war that had unexpectedly crashed upon them.

He felt no different than he had in the desert, surrounded by specters of some dark future, with only the prospect of darkness surrounding him and the distant laughter of jackals drawing ever nearer. But he was alone.

He heard a sudden clap of thunder outside and then the rain began, clattering loudly against the window boards and the castle tiles. The storm was starting.

...

The train of Lasaraleen’s tunic chased behind her, fluttering as she crossed the room towards the dais, like a banner in a devastated warzone. Aravis hardly looked up at her, her hand on her chin, fingernails digging into her palm.

Badrih and Aya had returned, and now sat on the carpeted steps to the dais, Aya clinging to Badrih. Aravis wondered that the stress of the past weeks had not caused the girl to fall ill. Concern had, thankfully, seemingly blotted out of Badrih’s ever calm mind any inquiries as to the nature of Aravis’ meeting with Halim. Ishamiel paced nervously at the foot of the dais, knuckles whitened at his sides. Marekh Tarkaan knelt at the very foot of the dais.

Lasaraleen finally came to a stop parallel to Vizier, glanced behind her at the guards that waited around the room, and then offered Aravis a complex curtsy before seating herself on the carpet. Issues of etiquette between friends were some of the most irritating to Aravis, but with recent developments they were the furthest from her mind. Lasaraleen, too, seemed too preoccupied to waste much thought on introductions.

“I came as soon as I heard,” she said in a voice tense with nerves. Aravis desperately wished that they could have met elsewhere, when she wasn’t raised several feet above the others with all their eyes on her. But there was no time.

Badrih’s eyes moved from Lasaraleen back to Aravis, and she continued what she had been saying before Lasaraleen’s arrival. “The power is very likely to shift in favor of his opponent. It was so with Zoshrud Tarkaan’s predecessor, some years back.”

“That opponent, at this present time, is Guram Tashkhad,” Ishamiel said tersely. “You have run out of time.”

Aravis held his gaze for a long moment. “He has not been assassinated, however, we are told.”

Ishamiel did not reply, but turned instead to the prostrate figure of Marekh Tarkaan. Aravis reminded herself with some frustration that the Vizier must be allowed to execute his role, as much as she disliked him.

When Marekh looked up, he found Aravis’s eyes already on him. He seemed to start out of his reverie, and bowed his head to the ground once more before speaking. “O Tisroc, if I may be permitted to speak.”

“You are.”

“The eyes and ears I have stationed in the city speak of a long-hidden ailment, which struck with sudden ferocity—a disease of fevers and sores in the skin, of agonizing pain and weakness. It is said that Zoshrud Tashkhad grew increasingly weak, although he kept his ailing hidden, until the disease took hold of him with vengeance and shattered his already frail flesh overnight.”

Badrih, Aya and Aravis looked at each other.

Aravis let out a laugh which bubbled up inside her unexpectedly, harsh and resonant in the large hall. It was not real mirth—more of a twisted satisfaction in the depth of the gods’ sense of irony. “It is the same disease that killed Rabadash,” Aravis breathed.

“But this is no laughing matter!” Lasaraleen exclaimed, interrupting the moment, but caught herself before she spoke too loudly. Marekh Tarkaan seemed to have already become accustomed to the Tarkheena’s informality and merely continued to gaze at Aravis gravely. Lasaraleen lowered her voice. “You know well the rumors that spring among those who hate you — rumors that speak of treachery and…. _Usurping_.” She drew a deep breath. “What will the people say when they hear that the most outspoken of your enemies has passed in the same manner? Will they not feel as if they can detect a pattern?”

The last part was said in such a strained whisper that Aravis struggled to hear it.

“And directly after an attempt on your life,” Ishamiel added.

Aravis remained silent. She could no longer feel her hands, having kept them clenched and still for what felt like hours, since Chlamash had come with the news.

Indeed, having Zoshrud Tashkhad out of the narrative of her reign’s swift collapse came as a relief, but it bore the unmistakable threat of bringing about her own downfall, much more abruptly than she would have imagined. If Guram Tashkhad took leadership of the Tashkhid, as seemed most likely, the urge to quickly replace her with Ishaq Tarkaan would prove overpowering. The restlessness of the people, the unlikely but not impossible alliance with Khalid Tarkaan that could come about as a result, coupled with the vicious dissent of the Tashkhid who spread their words like poison, could very much be the end of her. And that end would come quickly. They had already intensified their efforts, sending assassins into her bedroom while she slept. What would they try now?

In her mind’s eye, she saw the map of Calormen spread out before her: the fields surrounding her birthplace, Calavar, the distant horizon of Tehishbaan which she had never seen but had heard stories about, the Tribes of Wild Men battling in the South… and North, the vast desert extending onwards…

She looked at Ishamiel, who was staring off into the distance, like a man cornered planning one last escape from the enemy. His words echoed in her mind. _This position has always been occupied by a man, and if it lacks the forceful will that led it from the inception of the Empire, the people will find it lacking._

Rabadash rose up like a ghost, his violent smile leering, his command plain and melded with the voice of a raven.

When her voice left her at last it sounded almost distant. “Vizier, is there any news from the North?”

“King Lune of Archenland is dead. His throne is now occupied by King Cor, his eldest son.”

“I know this.”

He tried again, stumbling slightly over his sentences. “Word has reached our ears that some of the barbarians have begun to arrive in Telmar, escaping the chaos of their country. Galma has ceased trade with them.”

“They fear us,” Ishamiel remarked.

Aravis nodded slowly. “And Narnia? Can their King hope to unite the scattered peoples?”

“Our spies cannot venture into Cair Paravel, but it is doubtful that he will be able to bring back the age his predecessors enjoyed. Narnia falls swiftly into decline.” Marekh looked apologetic. “O Tisroc, I can happily produce a more learned scholar in barbarian happenings.”  
  
“There will be no need,” Aravis replied. She had read as much from the letters from beyond Tashbaan; but she also did not feel like requesting an outsider to bring her information on the situation. Discretion was key.

The idea had formed in her mind already, from the moment she had awakened in the night to the sight of her assassin, but only now did she see it clearly before her eyes. It stretched out before her like a treacherous path on the edge of a cliff, unavoidable and infinitely dangerous.

She stood up, heart pounding.

“I will hold an audience here, with the Tarkaan and Tashkhid of the city,” she said. “Vizier, see to it that messengers bearing my summons are dispatched at once.”

Everyone stared at her. The Grand Vizier bowed and left the room at a quick pace, the feathers on his turban bobbing up and down with every step.

“Will you not tell us what it is beforehand?” Lasaraleen asked, her voice strained with worry. In a low voice, so that the Guard would not hear, she pleaded, moving forwards slightly on the carpet. “Aravis, please be careful.”

Aravis did her best to smile. She was quite sure that she failed entirely. “I have survived everything so far; the gods are in my favor.” She turned to Ishamiel abruptly. “Will you walk with me?”

They strolled out of the hall and onto the terraces that opened towards one of the palace’s intricately decorated courtyards. The guards that had followed them, true to their charge of keeping her safe after the dangers of the night before, remained just beyond the doors. The courtyard was rather large, and it was empty, the melodies of songbirds ringing out through the shrubs and flowerbeds, in sharp contrast to the dark, twisted reality the humans had found themselves in.

Ishamiel was silent, arms crossed lightly before him. His face had grown sterner, Aravis noticed, in the time since Rabadash’s death. He had always been a grave man, in the time Aravis had known him, but there were lines in his face that implied a past that may have held laughter, even joy. At the moment, the crimson tips of his beard seemed to be the only color in his face.

She wondered if she had changed visibly as well. Taking a breath of fresh air, she stretched her numb hands against the cool breeze. “Why do you support my claim to the throne?” she asked suddenly, in a conversational tone which was almost unfitting for the abruptness of the question. “It is in no way convenient to you.”

Ishamiel had closed his eyes against the peace of the garden. Now he opened them, and his gaze was softer. His mouth curved into a small, bittersweet smile. “It is a dream, is it not?”

“It was a dream of my own.”

“And one of vengeance, in your mind.” He stared at her gravely. “You do not say it in words, but you do not have to. This enterprise – you have never sought power for the sake power. It is not in your nature. But to take what was once my brother’s, the only thing he ever valued, to become Tisroc of Calormen while he is dead…”

Aravis turned away, crossing her arms tightly. She felt inexplicably weak. “Do you think it petty?”

He let out a low laugh. “I relish, every night before sleep, the image of my brother, with his inexhaustible pride and vile cruelty, watching the wife he hated take his throne and submit the Empire to her will.” He sighed. “No, I do not think it petty. But for me… it means more than mere vengeance; it is hope.”

Aravis reined in the urge to laugh mirthlessly at how different his perception was. She was sure that no Tisroc had ever reigned so hopelessly, with days counted by the second until her ill-fated end. “ _Hope_?”

“I have two daughters,” Ishamiel replied quietly. “They are yet young, but earlier this year I was already approached by suitors – many of them full-grown men, Tarkaans fighting in the army.” His tone was hard, his eyes looking beyond Aravis to some bleak memory. “I have seen my brothers squabble from the day I was born in order to more fully unleash their violence upon childhood enemies, to collect their women as they collect their horses.”

Aravis had a sudden urge to shiver. She thought of the little girls she had seen in passing, once or twice, tiny creatures with large, dark eyes; and she remembered a younger Aravis, kneeling in the forest, holding the blade of a knife to her heart.

Ishamiel moved his gaze back to her, and for a moment she wondered if he had looked into her thoughts. But he smiled faintly. “It is a hopeless plan, perhaps, to make a Khasik into a Tisroc; to save this decaying, depraved nation… but if your dream of vengeance brings with it a chance that my daughters will not meet the same end as Tarkheenas have for as long as this Empire has known, if they can see, in their lifetimes, that they are more than cattle to be herded back and forth for men’s amusement… if I can die knowing that I attempted to do this... then it is enough.”

Aravis was silent, and the songs of the birds in the garden, beautiful specimens imported by the palace to spoil dignitaries with their music, seemed to swell to a crescendo before fading away.

They stood side by side and said nothing more for a while.

“I have a solution,” she finally said. “To our dilemma.” She held his gaze for a long moment. “Ishamiel, do you trust me?”

“I saw your will lift you to what seemed impossible, when you were but a Khasik in my brother’s clutches,” he said, looking down at her. “How could I not trust you now, when you rule far above me?”

Aravis felt a sudden swelling of emotion in her heart at the look in his eyes and the tone of his voice. She had not expected it. She had a sudden urge to seize his arm, to ground herself, to feel supported by more than just words, as if her body might collapse under the weight of both the responsibility and the confidence he was investing. “Trust me, though my plan may seem drastic; I will only succeed with your unwavering support.” She took a deep breath. “We already achieved the impossible once before.”

He nodded. “I am with you.”

In her mind’s eye, she again saw the yellow-haired boy, and emotion nearly overtook her.

She shoved it away and gathered her wits.

.

The truth was that she had come to the throne to die. Ruling in itself, for the short period of time she had realistically expected it to last, had been little more than one last act of revenge. Ishamiel was right. She had known that this would most likely be the end of her – an end that would be violent, even excruciating.

But as Aravis looked down at the mass of turbaned heads before her, a cluster of Palace women and her choice friends lingering to a side, she felt the purpose changing. She could not quite pin down what the change was. But the thought of Ishamiel’s daughters had shaken her, and suddenly she felt as if more was at stake: a drive that transcended mere instinct to survive.

She stood up. The cloth on her head flowed down over her shoulders, and she moved her arms out from beneath it, clasping her hands before her. The silver band on her arm felt hot to the touch. There were crescent-shaped bruises on her palms where her nails had dug in for too long.

Khalid Tarkaan was at the front, this time most decidedly present, and he glowered at her as viciously as he could without posing a threat to the Guard. Ishamiel stood at the front as well, and Aravis suspected that he planned to jump to her defense if necessary. Beside him was Avar Tarkaan, silent as he always was. Ishaq Tarkaan was nowhere to be seen.

The Tashkhid, eyes respectfully downcast despite the looks of hatred in them, knelt nearby, an oasis of white turbans in midst of the color. Guram was at their front, his beard dyed a deep black, mustache expertly curled. The threatening air that they emanated was unmistakable. If Aravis had still had doubts as to who had sent the assassin, she now dismissed them entirely.

“In mere weeks,” she said, her voice magnified by the acoustics of the hall. “My husband Rabadash Tisroc, upon him be the peace of the gods, and our most venerable spiritual authority, Zoshrud Tashkhad, have passed away from this mortal earth, and in the arms of Tash, the Irrevocable, ascended in glorious fire.”

Murmurs rose within the audience, and all heads bowed. The Tashkhid bowed with great reverence to the memory of their fallen member. Khalid Tarkaan barely allowed his head a twitch.

“But we shall not be consumed by foolhardy grief, when it is now so clear that sinister powers are afoot. Scarcely a month back, a small fraction of our army swept through the wild country of Archenland in the North and rid it of its barbarian King with a single slash of the sword – yet we could not have imagined the evils that lurk in their forests and mountains, in a kingdom where beasts speak and trees walk, and Dark Magic corrupts its creatures. Our honest weaponry was met with treachery, and so my husband’s life was taken by the Northerners’ Curse, an evil disease which robbed Calormen of years of glory under his rule!”

This, Aravis knew, was what would turn the tide. Many of the men who had travelled to Narnia had returned with tales of horror – tales of strange creatures and beasts that spoke as they devoured you. And those tales, in turn, had sprung new tales, exaggerated fantasies, horrid theories on how such beasts had come about, on what was necessary to create men who were half-goat, half-human, on what made women emerge from trees. The land had already been vastly different from that which the Calormenes knew; the addition of entirely new races had nearly scarred them.

The Tarkaans were not immune to the stories, whether superstitious or not. They had always reviled Archenland and Narnia, and envied the richness of their soil and mines. They longed to walk freely in the green lands – and perhaps find a tree-woman or two to take for themselves.

Only Ishamiel seemed to understand the entirety of what Aravis was doing. His eyes had widened, realization mixed with sudden wild concern, despite his earlier promises.

Lasaraleen, among the women, seemed enraptured. In the space of a few sentences, Aravis had managed to shift the blame on herself to the _Northern Curse_.

As the murmurs faded, Aravis continued. “It is clear before my eyes, now, that Zoshrud Tashkhad, who has often favored the severing of ties with barbarians, was struck down by the very same Curse. The barbarians have made us a target of such evils as Tash himself condemns. They have murdered our Tisroc, and murdered our Tashkhad.

“But we will not leave our dead unavenged. We will not allow our Empire to be besmirched by evil. Archenland and Narnia, the barbarian countries of the North, have long received our tolerance and generosity in the face of their depravity. They shall no longer.”

In her heart, she said a quick prayer. Tash would avail her, despite the lie. As if in response, she saw once again the glittering city lights in the night, felt the stale air of the Old Palace, the cold water around her shoulders and the feel of a horse beneath her. And the boy, always the same boy with yellow hair, travelling North.

She ripped the words out of Rabadash’s mouth and made them her own, just as she had made the throne her own, as she had made his bed her own, as she had made his power her own. “In this day, before all of you, I declare war on the thrice-accursed kingdoms of the North. Let us waste them with fire and sword, and add them to our illimitable Empire.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It took me over six months to update! Wow. I'm so sorry. But thank you for continuing to leave reviews; I've been writing this chapter since March, paragraph by paragraph, and now it's finally done (and of course I now have a new NFE assignment... hopefully that one doesn't mutate into a multichapter, like so many of my past ones have!). 
> 
> Thank you for your support! We seem to be midway through this story now... hopefully it won't take me another year to finish it :P


	6. Chapter 6

_He was surrounded by a burning, golden ocean, and the sight of it stretching out all around him momentarily blinded him. When he closed his eyes, all he could feel was the horse’s sweaty coat under his palm and the scalding heat of the sun on his shoulders—his skin must be shriveling and peeling off his flesh._

_Far ahead—a faint line of mountains. He could see it when he squinted against the sky’s glare. He wanted to say something, to encourage the others, but his throat was too dry. Instead of words, all that came from his mouth was a short, rasping cough._

_Swallowing nothing, he turned and strained his eyes towards the direction from which they had come. The city had disappeared into the sand._

_Bree paused briefly, as if nearly at the edge of his strength. At his side, the mare was barely better, and Aravis seemed to be holding herself up by sheer willpower. A willpower that he himself was feeling evaporate under the sun. Only the mountains in the distance held promise._

_They plodded on._

_._

“Your Majesty.”

Cor started awake, suddenly short of breath. It took him a moment to register the soreness in his neck, and the throbbing pain in his palm. With a low groan, he peeled his hand from the ridges in the stone ledge and blinked at the angry red lines that had left their mark there.

He was still wearing the same clothes as yesterday, he realized, rolling his shoulders and wincing. The pain faded quickly, however, as his mind caught up with his body and he remembered.

Darrin was watching him gravely, standing quietly in the deserted corridor that looped behind a long-abandoned, rather structurally unsound wing of the servants’ quarters. He was dressed for the Council meeting, his expression fitting for what was clearly going to be a council of war.

“I thought you might be here,” he said gently, and offered Cor his hand. Cor took it, grimacing as he got to his feet from the ledge where he had unintentionally fallen asleep the night before. “I suspect Prince Corin might have found you sooner, but he is nowhere to be found, so I doubt he even noticed your absence.”

“What time is it?” Cor inquired, suddenly alarmed. The gaps in the stone that had once been windows were shining with bright sunlight. He reached up to hurriedly smooth down his hair. He was a fool coming down here the night before, and an even greater fool for allowing himself to collapse.

“Early enough, Sire, so you have no need to worry. I was seeking you out with the hope of speaking to you over breakfast,” his grey eyes glanced over him quickly. “Favorably, it was I who found you.”

“I’m sorry.” Cor rubbed his face somewhat more roughly than he normally would; the pain, for the moment, would have to do as punishment. He was an idiot. “I won’t have breakfast, anyway—I don’t think I could keep anything down.”

For once, Darrin did not argue.

Heaving a sigh, Cor suddenly felt his knees give way underneath him. He stumbled back onto the ledge, cradling his head in his hands. Physical weariness was quickly overcome by the anguish of the day before. _In the name of Tash, the Exalted, the Inexorable…_

Calormen had declared war.  
  
Darrin said nothing as Cor sat there, despite the fact that time was probably pressing. The corridor was tomb-like in its silent emptiness, and it seemed the perfect place to house the somber weight of the oncoming war. Cor fought a wave of nausea, his heart constricting painfully.

“I suppose I ought to have mobilized us sooner,” he said in a low voice. “I was…” he clenched his teeth, feeling another wave of sickness wash over him. How many times had he denied a coming war? Corin could not have been right in his idea to be the first to attack—but Cor almost preferred _anything_ to this feeling of powerlessness.

“It was faster than any of us expected,” Darrin said in a measured tone. “The Tisroc has often toyed with ambushes, but never carried out attacks so quickly after one another, much less directly after a new coronation. It was not foolish to believe that we had bought ourselves some time.”

Cor dropped his hands. They lay on his knees before him, and he had never felt smaller than now—a King crouching in an old corridor, hidden from the rest of the castle, too afraid to even face his own Council. “I could be the last king of Archenland,” he said. “I so desperately want to think that I did the right thing.”

Darrin let out a breath. Looking up at him, Cor saw the age in the Lord’s face, stern and scarred and wise. He wondered, suddenly, how old Darrin was—how much longer he would be able to stay at his side.

Well, if such a war was truly coming, Cor might not even live to see the following year.

“Such questions of rights and wrongs are for historians, not kings,” Darrin said slowly, his gaze moving to meet Cor’s. “You did and will do your best, and choose what you believe to be right. That is what is expected of you; nothing more.”

Cor had to look away, bowing his head and taking a deep breath that made his ribcage ache. He had stumbled down into the corridor the night before and spent what had felt like an eternity pacing in the very space where he and Corin had often played as children, pretending to be spies and knights and warriors exploring caves, hiding from servants who sought to rescue them from the risk of the ceiling crumbling inwards. Cor suspected that if the ceiling had held for so many years after all the havoc they had caused, it was unlikely to collapse because of one person’s pacing—but he had not meant to collapse overnight.

He had heard of animals that, when their time came to die, retreated into dark holes, far removed from any of their species, and died there alone in the darkness.

Perhaps he had been hoping for something of the sort.

This time he pushed himself off from the ledge and got to his feet without assistance. Darrin remained calm, and said nothing as they quietly made their way out of the corridor, through the courtyard and towards more frequented halls. If any passerby saw the King’s appearance and deemed it more disheveled than usual, they did not wonder at the fact. War had risen like a looming wave, threatening to engulf them.

The last battle had taken King Lune from them. It was doubtful that Archenland could survive another.

.

Nurse Aida sat across from breakfast in an attempt to persuade him to eat more than three spoonfuls of porridge, as if he were a child, but it was of no use. Cor’s stomach was churning with anxiety. When he looked up at the Lords filing into the Council Hall, he found himself clenching the parchment in front of him in a fist.

Corin did not appear. Cor was not surprised.

“Well, here we are,” Lord Tran said grimly, the first to speak once they were all seated. “We cannot claim that this war was entirely unexpected.”

“No, we cannot,” Lord Shar interjected, eyes downcast, perhaps to avoid glaring at his king. “Even the peasants were mobilizing themselves, whilst we sat here theorizing on ethics.”

“This is not a time to foster disunity,” Darrin said firmly from across the table.

“I agree. This is a time for _action_ ,” Shar retorted. “The Tisroc can amass ten thousand men with a wave of his hand; we can scarcely hope for…”

“Three thousand,” Cor finished for him. “At a stretch, if the Lords in the West manage to gather forces in time.”

Shar seemed momentarily quietened by the figure, although if it was defeat at the hopelessness of their situation or a rare instance of respect, Cor couldn’t tell.

Dar’s mouth was a grim line, his brows drawn taut together. “We cannot hope to hold against Calormen alone. Nor could we hope to salvage much of the kingdom, even if we were. Anvard remains the safest fortress, but to hold her we would have to leave all villages to burn.”

Lord Colin sighed, reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose. “I would advise beginning evacuation at once. Villagers must travel West towards the mountains and Telmar, or seek safe haven in Cair Paravel.”

“ _Haven_?” Lord Shar let out a low, mirthless laugh. “Peridan cannot hope to hold against Calormen’s forces any more than we can. No,” he directed his gaze at Cor now, sharp and intense. “Your Majesty, I know well the loyalty you bear towards the King of Narnia, but Archenland awaits. If we can muster a force of three thousand ourselves, even after the loss of so many, Narnia is likely to be able to produce at least its double.”

Colin shook his head. “I am afraid that by sending troops to our aid, Narnia cuts off trade with Galma almost immediately. Reghorius has little regard for newcomers.”

Dar frowned. “Narnia is strong, but its leadership is yet at its tentative stage. A loss in trade as well as lives…”

“We have no time to court the King’s favor,” Shar snapped. “Let us send in our own men and bring Narnia’s armies back with us. Peridan cannot refuse a show of force; we are now all that stands between him and the Tisroc.”

Cor slammed his hands down on the table. The Lords jumped.

“Must I repeat myself again, at this very table? Have we not made clear Archenland’s stance towards Narnia?” he looked at Shar in particular, but he could detect the false reluctance in the eyes of the others. Shar was not the only one with the wish to show supremacy over Narnia.

There was an uncomfortable silence, and Colin shifted in his seat before speaking hesitantly. “We may yet secure a more favorable standing.”

Although Corin was not present, Cor began to feel his brother’s rage burning within him. “We are concerned with our _standing_ , now?”

“Your Majesty, the Golden Age is over. Our alliance with the Four was fruitful and brought us prosperity, but Narnia’s new king will not be able to harness such power. The Four—and the power of the Lion that gave them the Crown—held the Tisroc at bay for years. But those times of peace are ended. What shall we do when all our ties of trade are severed? Narnia can negotiate with Galma, in the end—we do not possess such a comfort. When all is done, what remains?” He gestured towards the parchment in front of Cor: a map of Archenland and neighboring lands. “A crippled nation of scattered peoples, with the King and his Lords encased in Anvard; little more than a watchtower for the benefit of the Narnian border.”

A foreboding silence fell upon the room.

“Even if we miraculously survive this war, there will be little left in the wake of its destruction. Secure our fortunes now, Sire—before it is too late.”

Cor glanced at Darrin, who sat stiffly in his seat. Dar, at his side, had both hands upon the table, knuckles bone-white. He half-hoped that Darrin would reply; that he would assuage Shar’s fears, and by extension, the ones that were taking root in Cor. But Darrin said nothing.

Drawing a breath, Cor forced himself to remain calm. “So you would propose marching into Narnia and bringing in the armies ourselves?”

“Yes. It is strictly practical, and Peridan cannot complain.”

“It is the equivalent of escorting an unruly child home.”

“That depends on interpretation. We require haste. It would be a move of consideration on our part, to lead the armies ourselves and spare the King of Narnia peril scarcely within weeks of his coronation.”

Dar raised his eyebrows skeptically. “A King not marching to war?”

“It is not unheard of.”

Cor let out a breath of cold amusement. “So we emasculate him and undermine his role as a commander, and draw in his people under our banner? Do you truly think Narnian centaurs will take kindly to Archen command?”

“They will if their King commands it.”

And Peridan _would_ allow it, out of generosity, and the pressure of keeping ties with Archenland intact. A watchtower they may be, but Archenland was efficient and necessary for the stability of the North, as well as the land of Peridan’s childhood. He would not deny them aid.

Clenching his jaw, he drew a breath.

“No.”

Lord Shar heaved what could only be described as an exasperated sigh, and fleeting looks of disapproval flickered on Tran and Colin’s faces. Myn remained silent. Cor was yet, in their eyes, an inexperienced boy, King or no. Cor was painfully aware of it.

“Sire—”

“I will send word to Peridan, asking Narnia’s aid. I shall do nothing further. I did not watch my father’s friendship with Narnia flourish all these years to reverse the process the minute he is gone. Lord Shar,” he fixed his gaze on the older man. “You know that I have great regard for you, and respect your experience in these matters. But I will not tolerate further mention of overtaking Narnia.”

Dar was watching him, expression inscrutable. Cor suspected that both Dar and Darrin disapproved of his sternness, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. His back still ached from sleeping on the stone ledge, and the words from the letter the day before were etched into his mind. He had little tolerance for petty greed, well-thought-out as it may be.

His father’s voice, measured and mildly amused, seemed to float through his mind. _The bear does not make an enemy out of the mountain._ King Lune would have known to handle this easily.

But he could not afford to consider Shar’s pride, or the secret hopes of the others at the table. War was upon them. Perhaps he was making an enemy out of Shar, but they had to survive the Tisroc to be able to spar any further on the Council’s whims.

“And what if,” Lord Myn spoke up suddenly, the tips of his fingers touching each other thoughtfully. “Narnia refuses? They are almost equally crippled.”

“We are the gateway to the North,” Darrin replied quietly. “Peridan knows the risk.”

But Myn was right, Cor knew, even as the discussion turned to the practical next steps in amassing enough resources to withstand a war. Narnia had been unspeakably weakened, and Peridan was no fool—he was well aware of the risk of leaving his kingdom so soon after being crowned, to return to Archenland. There were whispers on either side of the mountains regarding the legitimacy of his claim, although in Archenland they most certainly doubled, and dissatisfaction would have to be assuaged immediately. Marching a few thousand Narnians to war would possibly be the most unpopular decision a king could make so early in his reign.

Peridan knew the risks, yes—the risks on both sides. If Narnia refused to aid them, or sent too small a company, Cor could not blame them. Narnia could yet hold against an assault from Calormen, despite the inconvenience of losing Archenland as an ally.

But without Narnia, Archenland would be lost before the Tisroc’s cavalry even had a chance to draw their swords.

…

The day was humid, as the land prepared itself for the winds of a slowly approaching autumn. Aravis braced her hands against the balcony, still within the shadow of the building, and looked down the line of the outer Palace walls and the distant streets. Even in the shadows, she was sweating, although her body seemed to be reacting much too extremely to the weather—perhaps it had more to do with anxiety than anything else.

In the cool room behind her, sheltered by the high ceiling, men were beginning to assemble, speaking in low voices. For the time being, she was partly hidden from them, the thin sheet of the curtains forming a wall between her and the hungering politicians and clergy.

Marekh Tarkaan was standing a few steps away, head bowed, the single feather in his turban shimmering in light reflected off of his jewelry.

“How many more?” Aravis asked quietly, eyes still on the ground below.

“The third son of Arehir Tarkaan, and Zoshrud Taskhid’s own nephew. I have heard word that three more lay ailing, although of lower rank.”

She fell silent for a moment, frowning. Below, two large carriages made their way through one of the lower gates, laden with crates, soldiers flanking their sides. War supplies had begun to arrive.

“The panic will spread swiftly as soon as it is made known,” Aravis continued. “Bring healers to me, as discreetly as possible.”

“The palace physician, perhaps?” Markeh Tarkaan’s voice was uncertain.

“No,” she said shortly. “From the western quarter.”

His pause was enough of a sign that he did not understand her reasoning, but just as she was about to repeat herself with more force, she heard him shift where he stood. “To hear is to obey.”

There was a sudden quiet murmur of fabric, and the curtain behind them rippled to reveal a rather irritated-looking Ishamiel, the expression perhaps heightened by the presence of the white-turbaned men in the room behind them. As Aravis turned towards him, he bowed, his eyes meeting hers.

The first heralds had left shortly after Aravis’ announcement and spread word on the streets, carrying the Banner of Tash as trumpets blew at the Palace gates, as was the custom. The people of Tashbaan were accustomed to declarations of war; it was one of the Tarkaan’s favorite activities. Aravis’ father had often said proudly, if rather wryly, that in Calormen seasons were not measured according to the sun, but in the space between wars. 

Letters had now been dispatched to every province, calling for their troops and supplies, which they had likely already had at hand. Word had returned from Zalindreh on that very day, confirming two thousand horsemen to arrive within two days.

On the balcony, Ishamiel nodded towards Marekh in acknowledgement, and then returned his gaze to Aravis. “Five provinces have pledged themselves to us already; the rest will follow on the morrow.”

“Their hunger for the North, at least, can be counted upon.” Aravis sighed grimly. “Are they all here?”

“They await you.”

And indeed they did – Guram Tashkhad, flanked by two silent members of the Tashkhid; Chlamash Tarkaan, Head of the Guard; and the two other brothers of Rabadash Tisroc, Khalid and Avar. Ishaq was absent, but he had not been present at meetings for a few years already.

It was customary for the Princes to take part in the war council, and to lead the greater body of Tashbaan’s army. Had Adeben Tisroc left any of his brothers alive, they too might have been present. As it was, Aravis was rather relieved that there were only three pairs of eyes watching her with dislike as she entered, flanked by Marekh and Ishamiel.

Guram, his joints likely aching from age, was seated at one side of the table – it would be the only chair, as Aravis could not bear the thought of lowering herself into anything in front of them. Chlamash stood close to her, only slightly more relaxed, as his role now required more speaking than was usual. Avar and Ishamiel stood beside the table opposite from Guram, near the large map that had been unfurled upon it, and Marekh was only a few steps from Aravis, staring on silently.

Khalid Tarkaan, on the other hand, was leaning against a tapestried wall, his eyes narrowed. He was expected to deliver the report on Tashbaan’s forces, given Ishaq’s absence and his own wartime expertise—a task he carried out with the utmost distaste.

“From Tashbaan will ride two thousand, with five hundred cavalry – including the Tisroc’s Guard, may she live forever,” he added through his teeth. “The Guard, and the Tarkaans of this House.”

Ishamiel nodded. “Zalindreh has already pledged five hundred, all skilled warriors, recently returned from the outposts at Ramar. They may be tired, but they are a hardy people.”

“Zalindreh has been known to be well-organized,” Aravis said. “We would do well to ask Corradin Tarkaan to supply us ships as well; once the fighting is ended, we will need to transfer supplies Northwards. When we clear the harbors, we can receive them where the sea joins the Winding Arrow.”

“And what of Kidrash Tarkaan?” Guram Tashkhad asked suddenly, staring at her from beneath bushy eyebrows. It was clear that the presence of a woman at a war council seemed inappropriate to him. “How is his cavalry?”

Aravis turned to Ishamiel. Guram’s attempts to catch her off guard with references to her father would have no hold over her.

“Eight hundred strong,” Ishamiel said, redirecting Guram’s glare towards himself. “It adds to nearly two thousand on horse, which will make for a swift crossing of the desert. Mezreel has annexed itself to Calavar and will provide five hundred on foot.”

Avar was staring at the maps before him, possibly for some respite from the tension in the room. “What of Teebeth?”

Khalid spoke from his place against the wall, his voice gravelly. “Teebeth has chariots, but their horse numbers are greatly diminished. If we were to withdraw troops from the South, they could be united.”

Aravis turned to him. “Are their horses trained?”

His expression did not change, but she saw a flicker of anger in them, his lips tightening around his words. “They are. We have always taken them from Teebeth itself; however, as violence has subsided in most of the South, they had little battling to do. They will be quickly reacquainted.”

“Very well,” Aravis said, folding her arms in front of her, resisting the urge to nervously tap her fingers. She looked to Marekh. “Has Bilash Tarkaan sent word?”

It was Tehishbaan that was the most worrisome, although on a personal level, Calavar came as a close second. Bilash Tarkaan, Durriya’s father, was most certainly displeased with the turn of events; he had not yet had time to concoct any plan, as far as Aravis knew, but summoning Tehishbaan to the war was akin to provoking a lion. If Bilash had not planned to act before, he would certainly act now, when summoned by the very person who had usurped his infant grandson’s claim to the throne.

“We have two thousand strong riding from Tehishbaan,” the Vizier said. “Two hundred are cavalry; three hundred are archers; the rest are all footmen armed to the tooth. Tehishbaan is also providing weaponry and armor for Tashbaan, and additional troops brought in from villages where weapons and armor cannot be found.”

“How many of these do you estimate to have?”

“No more than a thousand, O Tisroc. Few from the farming lands are well enough to fight.”

It had been a swift decision, after all. She could not expect much more. “Either way, it will be a large company. I doubt Archenland could muster even half.”

Guram stirred irritably in his seat. “If Narnia does not aid them.”

Aravis shook her head. “We are well equipped against Narnia. They may have once been powerful, but they have lost their driving force. They have not assembled a company larger than three thousand in many years, and the Four are now gone. The crown is precarious upon their King’s head. Even if they do aid their neighbors, it will be at great cost.”

Avar finally looked up from the map, expression pensive. “It might prove an advantage, if they do,” he remarked, studiously ignoring his older brother, who did not take kindly to his slightly more respectful tone towards Aravis. “Once the main force of the Narnians is annihilated in Archenland, the Northern countries are free for the taking. Cair Paravel will stand undefended.”

“That is easy to say, young man,” Guram Tashkhad was scowling, brow furrowed. “But you are not counting on the fear that the barbarians inspire in the hearts of righteous men. The sight of the beast-like demons is one that could quell all courage. It would do you well to prepare your men for what they are to see.”

“Our soldiers are strong, Tashkhad,” Khalid snapped. “You forget that this is not the first time that they have faced the North in battle.”

Guram’s smile was icy cold. “If you had been at Rabadash Tisroc’s side _in_ that battle, Tarkaan,” he said. “Then you would know that it is Narnia that wields the more unsightly demons.”

The air in the room seemed ready to snap with tension. Khalid Tarkaan was livid, although he did not move an inch from where he leaned against the wall. Guram sat motionless, eyes cold and satisfied.

The Grand Vizier spoke then, rather nervously – correctly choosing to side with the more powerful man in the room. Whether or not he believed in what he was saying, Aravis did not know. He turned to Guram. “We cannot forget the Curse. We will need the Tashkhid to cast prayers of protection.”

“We have the Tisroc,” came Khalid’s reply, spoken in a scathing voice before Guram had time to answer. His black eyes, sharp with scorn, were digging into Aravis’ skin like a dagger. “Tash himself has spoken to her. She is incapable of going astray, is she not?”

Aravis held his gaze, and said nothing.

.

She woke up the next morning with sand between her toes, and the taste of old dust in her mouth. It was only when she opened her eyes that she realized that the sensations were merely remnants of her dream—that she was in bed, as always, and the memories of scrambling down narrow stairs, of hurrying through a secret gate in the walls of Tashbaan, of desperately rowing towards the distant, dark outline of the desert Tombs, where not really memories.

The relief she had felt at the sight of Shasta, however, stayed with her as she rose from bed and prepared for breakfast.

Lasaraleen seemed uncommonly subdued when Aravis met her shortly afterwards, her slender hands folded before her, her eyes worried.

“What is it?” Aravis asked, ignoring the tray of coffee at her side and turning to Lasaraleen instead. “Are you well?”

“I meant to speak with you sooner, but you were busy… understandably.” Lasaraleen’s voice was devoid of the overly-dramatic timbre it usually possessed. Somehow, this seemed more alarming. “You declared war on the North. Have you not put yourself in danger enough already?”

Aravis sighed. “You know that I have little fear for danger; it follows me wherever I go. This is worth the risk.”

“Is it worth _ours_?”

Aravis looked at her blankly.

Lasaraleen stared at her in dismay. “Aravis, I have two children. I have thrown my lot with you because I love you dearly, soul-sister that you are. And I do believe that none could do more good than you upon the throne; I may not speak up as you do, but this has been my protest.” She took a breath. “I bring my children to the Palace and sit at your side in plain view of everyone. Both Ishamiel and I are known for being close to you, and both of us have families. What will become of us if an angry Tarkaan orders treachery on the battlefield, and slits your throat rather than the enemy’s? What will the Tarkaans and the Tashkhid do to us then, after supporting the rule of the Usurper?”

Aravis remained silent. Out of all the reasons for Lasaraleen to speak up against the war, she was ashamed to realize that she had not considered this one.

Despite being the younger one of the two of them, she had never truly seen Lasaraleen as her elder—even when the latter had given birth to two children. Her temperament was always so light and frivolous that Aravis had never truly had need to take her seriously.

But of course she was right. Aravis had been aware of the risk to herself—of course she had been; but she had never asked Lasaraleen to support her outright: she had merely expected her to.

She had never stopped to think what would happen to Badrih and Aya, either. Their fates had already been bleak upon Rabadash’s death, because of the prospect of marrying other Tarkaans, but by being allied to Aravis they had effectively become traitors. And if Aravis died, who knew what would become of them?

She thought of Lasaraleen’s children, always calling out _Aunt Aravis_ at inappropriate occasions, too innocent to understand the importance of rank. She thought of Lasaraleen’s husband, whom she seldom saw—a rather distracted Tarkaan with a not unkindly heart.

Lasaraleen reached forward and took her hand in hers. It was a gesture reminiscent of the times they had spent together in Ilkeen; Aravis disliked holding hands or embracing frivolously, as Tarkheenas enjoyed displaying their affection among the female quarters of the Palace. Such gestures had always reminded her of her stepmother; her cool hands stroking her hair in a pretense of love, while she whispered insults into Aravis’ father’s ear.

But Lasaraleen’s hand was warm, and her eyes, though grave and anxious, were still not condemning—although Aravis was beginning to think that they ought to be.

“You cannot ride North,” Lasaraleen said quietly. “They will kill you. Surely you must know that. Despite everything, you are no warrior, and unlike the Tisrocs of old, you have nearly no allies at all besides Ishamiel among the Tarkaans. At this moment, you carry many other fates besides your own.”

The Tisrocs of old did not always ride to war, but they had sons to command in their name. Power was established through warfare. But to leave the very group of people who had been there for here when no one else had, and effectively offer them up for execution in her absence, was a prospect so horrible that it shook Aravis to think that she had never considered it before.

She sighed, sinking back down onto the cushions and placing her head in her hands. The breeze from outside suddenly felt unbelievably cold.

.

The healers were two women, heads covered with ragged veils in respect as they crouched before the dais, looking small and weak before the magnificence of the throne room. Aravis made her way to her seat and waved the Guard away towards the back of the room. Marekh remained.

The eldest healer, whose whitening hair emerged slightly from beneath the veil, spoke in a tremulous voice. “Verily the Tisroc, may she live forever, is fair and glorious beyond measure! Never did we, mere healers from the western quarter, dream of treading such exalted floors. Your command is our dearest wish.”

Aravis let out a quiet breath. When she was Khasik, her guests could at the very least approach her feet. Here, they sat much too far for comfortable conversation. But it would have to be borne. “I have summoned you, and not the famed physicians of the city, to hear what has not reached the ears of the Tarkaans. As you know, we are to wage war on the North, and have vengeance over the curse that they have set upon the empire. Have you seen the Curse in your dealings with the poor?”

The younger woman responded this time, her head still bowed to the ground. “Fifteen are ill in the western quarter alone,” she said, her voice scarcely higher than a murmur. “Three fell dead this morning, sunken in a mad fever, boils upon their skin like the bites of a snake. But it is not—”

She suddenly felt silent, and it was clear that it was as a result of the older woman, who had suddenly dug her elbow into the other woman with fierceness. Aravis frowned. “Continue.”

“Forgive me, O Tisroc. There is nothing more to say.”

“There is,” Aravis snapped, and let out another sigh. “I have not called you to issue punishment. Speak plainly.” She fixed her gaze on the younger woman. “It is not _what_?”

The woman trembled. “I—O Tisroc, we have seen such cases for many years; they are not rare among the common peoples. This is merely an intensification. Perhaps—” She hesitated. “Perhaps the Curse resides in its transference from the less-fortunate to the mighty.”

Another Tisroc would have considered such words blasphemy—to imply that the Curse was a medical condition rather than Dark Magic from the North was, after all, a diminishing of Aravis’ say in the matter.

Aravis, however, did not particularly mind. The Curse was an ideal created for the sake of the Tarkaans and the Tashkhid, one she had known would be incapable of affecting the more scientifically-minded.

“What is required to cease its spread?”

The women looked at each other surreptitiously once more. “The sick must cease relations with the healthy,” the old woman replied hesitantly, in a low voice. “Once the signs are clear, they are incapable of spreading. But that is difficult to achieve; men frequent all manner of places, and so it spreads. And we have not the supplies to tend to the ailing and prevent their deaths. O Tisroc, what are we to do?”

What, indeed? Aravis dismissed them shortly after, with a promise of a future meeting, although her own words sounded hollow in her ears. There was too much happening all at once, and to tend to the war preparations and keeping herself alive was challenging enough. There was no one she could trust to safely assist the healers, as worth of help as the women might be. In a Palace full of plotters and bloodthirsty politicians, she scarcely trusted that anyone could intervene in city matters without making them worse.

Ishamiel, on the other hand, seemed slightly more confident as he met her midway through the colonnade, returning from a meeting with lower-rank captains.

“Their morale is boosted,” he told her in a low voice as they walked up a staircase. “A war always makes blood run swifter.”

“It is a fragile pause to their treachery,” Aravis replied, glancing down through a window at where a small assembly of Tashkhid was gathered in a courtyard, deep in conversation between themselves. “I do not trust it.”

“The North is a decent distraction,” Ishamiel replied. “As daring as a decision it was, to take the North would be a fine consolation prize. The Tashkhid and those Tarkaans present at the altar, against their own interests, find themselves believing in your invocation of Tash. They cannot completely reject you. And they fear the North as much as they crave it.”

“Curses fall only on the powerful, after all,” Aravis grimaced. “It would be to their advantage for me to die as Rabadash did before me.”

“Yes.” He paused in his tracks, and Aravis stopped and turned to look at him. He hesitated. “Tisroc, we have not discussed the matter of your own presence on the battlefield. I’m afraid I do not find it advisable—”

Aravis scowled. “Lasaraleen already spoke to me on this matter; I see you are of like mind.” She sighed and turned away, looking at the towering pillars and the gleaming rays of sunlight that slid between them. “You need not worry.”

He said nothing, but she could feel his eyes on her.

“What?”

Ishamiel shook his head lightly. “Your eagerness to march into the fray surprises me. I did not take you for one battle-hungry, as fierce as your fighting has been in diplomatic circles.”

“It is not the sword that attracts me,” she replied, and walked away.

And it was not—not really, as much as he had fantasized about war as a child. She had never cared for violence, as much as she had understood it. Back then, it had been the prospect of the adventure, of riding through foreign lands and seeing herself raised to the ranks of the Tarkaans, to show that she was more than a little girl.

But now, as she held power over Calormen in one hand and fought away the Tarkaans and the Tashkhid with the other, all she could think of was the dreams. Somehow, the yearning for the North that had been in the heart of the girl and the boy in her dreams—especially the girl, although she struggled to understand: was it another girl, or was it herself?—it had become a part of her. The North called from beyond the desert, and she would touch it, whether it be conquered or upon the battlefield.

Tash had issued his order, somehow, between the voice of Rabadash and the voice of demons and the eyes of children in her dreams. She was meant to turn Calormen’s eyes Northwards.

.

They rode to the Tombs just before sunset—although it mattered little that the gates closed, Aravis thought. In her dream, the secret door from the Palace to the outside was still as stark as if it were real. And perhaps it was; secret plots were known to be carried out in the Palace, both now and in the past.

 Badrih and Aya accompanied her in adjacent litters. They were lowered in the sand, and Aravis held onto the frame as she felt the soft, sinking feeling of sand beneath her. The ground was still hot from the sun earlier in the day, and even with the curtains closed, Aravis could hear the soft whispers of particles shifting endlessly like an ocean all around them. She took a deep breath of it. It smelled so different from the city that it was strange to think that she had been looking at it from her window for years.

The Tombs lined most of the view on her left: dark monuments against the orange-red sky, the sort her older brother used to enjoy filling with tales of ghouls and evil spirits when telling her stories to frighten her.

Badrih and Aya, having emerged from their litters, glancing at the Tombs warily.

Aya looked around them doubtfully. Evidently, ghost stories about the place had not been told in Calavar only. “Why are we here?”

Aravis had many answers to that question. She settled with: “I wanted to speak to you both.”

She turned, and they walked together on the smooth sandy plain, away from the slaves that stood by the litters, patiently waiting. Chlamash and a few other guards waited just beyond them, facing the city.

“The city looks very different from here than from the Southern gardens,” Aya breathed, watching the outline of the towers gleam in the sunset. “You can see more of the Palace and the Temple from here.”

Aravis hardly heard her. The view was stunning, but it had also brought a memory to the surface. It was from the dream she had had the night before; of escaping through the secret corridors of the Palace, Lasaraleen clinging to her hand—of hasty farewells and sprinting through the sand, to find the horses, to find _Shasta_ …

“Will you be riding North?” Badrih asked quietly, hands clasped in front of her as the wind whipped around their skirts. Aravis felt a surge of appreciation towards her; there was neither alarm nor concern in her voice.

“I have said that I will not,” Aravis replied in an equally low voice. “But there is danger in both choices.”

“Do not worry about us,” Badrih said. Overhead, dark specks flew towards the sea—seagulls, most likely. “You must think of what is best for the Empire.”

“I do not want harm to come to you because of me.”

“I could arrange for you to travel. Surely you do not wish to remain in Tashbaan when tensions are so high; either way, none of us wanted to be here to begin with. You should escape the capital now that you can.”

Badrih met her gaze. “Aravis, we have all been through the same hell. We have seen this country for what it really is, and tasted its bitter fruit. You need not shelter us.” She smiled bitterly. “And even if we were to go, our families would not take us back.”

Aravis felt a chill run through her spine. Who would lead the delegation from Calavar? She had not thought of that, forcing herself to move on when she had seen Calavar among the provinces listed. They would expect something great, as the kin of the Tisroc. And yet her father…

She quickly escaped the thought. “At the Temple of Zardeenah they will ask no questions, and it is matchless in beauty. You could build a new life. You need not remain locked in the Palace, in this city.”

Aya shook her head, kicking the sand gently with her foot. It rose in a cloud and then faded into the ground again. “I do not want to leave. Tashbaan is home, now—whatever home means.”

“Perhaps you could assign us duties?” Badrih looked at Aravis earnestly. “We are not mere wives, anymore. There is more that we can do—and more that we can learn, I am sure.”

Aravis suddenly felt angry at herself for not thinking of it earlier. While she isolated herself in the task as Tisroc, Badrih and Aya had remained on the sidelines, still living as little more than wives, although their monstrous husband was gone. She thought of Ishamiel’s words, again _if your dream of vengeance brings with it a chance that my daughters will not meet the same end as Tarkheenas have for as long as this Empire has known, if they can see, in their lifetimes, that they are more than cattle to be herded back and forth for men’s amusement…_

Such a change would need to come from choices on her own part. Choices such as having more than one woman in a governing role in Calormen, or at the very least in Tashbaan.

“I do have something for you,” Aravis said. “The western quarter is in dire need of supplies to treat the illnesses of the city, and I suspect that many other places are also suffering. Perhaps you could be in charge of this task; to contain disease and prevent the deaths of more people.”

At the very least, she thought, they were sure to be more sensible than any Tarkaan in such a role.

As they stood on the sand silently, Aya digging her bare feet into a small, sun-warmed dune, Aravis looked at them. It was impressive, how three young girls who had spent years locked in the Palace to serve the Tisroc, could have emerged with such strength. Badrih, especially. While Aravis struggled to find more than bitterness and vengeance within herself, Badrih manifested neither. Her concern seemed purely directed towards those around her, and towards the country.

In the years they had lived together, Aravis had mostly kept herself at a distance, as if denying friendship might be the easiest way to pretend that none of it was happening. Perhaps it had made things easier, in the end—had she stopped to think of the consequences her rise to power would have, she may not have pursued that road quite as fiercely.

But she thought ruefully now of all the times she had avoided becoming closer to Badrih than what circumstance demanded. Perhaps it had been because of the similarities between Badrih and her stepmother: their provenance from Zalindreh, their shared belief in superstition. In character, they had differed greatly, but in the aftermath of her wedding arrangements, brought on by the cruel whispers of her father’s wife, she had almost utterly rejected speaking to other women.

She had been a stupid child.

She still was one.

And now, she was marching to war. Success was almost guaranteed—the army of Calormen surpassed the Northerners in number, there was no question of that. But as she looked out towards the desert, and to the distance where she knew Mount Pire rose up, marking the border of Archenland and the barbarian lands, she could not help but feel a strange sense of foreboding.

…

_The walls of the cliffs rose up around him, and sand gave way to pebbles—desert, to vegetation. He was so tired that he doubted he could stay upright much longer. The Horses and Aravis seemed equally exhausted._

_The valley itself would tightly around the rock, hiding itself from view… as if water were a creature to be chased; one that did not want to be caught. It hid in the crags and in clumps of grass that grew in size as they drew nearer, until he began to suspect that perhaps they would never find it at all._

_But they did find it, under the light of a large white moon, in a valley lined by bushes and filled with the perfume of flowers. And he listened to a nightingale call out, and knew vaguely that this was the first time that he had ever heard such a sound, and stepped into a column of falling water with a sigh of peace and relief._

_._

There had not been war in Archenland since the times of the Witch, when her servants had attempted to breach into southern territories as well and King Lune’s grandfather had had to carry the full force of Archenland’s army into the fray. In the end, the White Witch had settled for sealing the gap through the mountains, effectively blocking both them and her own people from crossing into each other’s lands. Only a few refugees fleeing over the sea or through the mountains before the full force of her ice magic had set in, had been able to breach through.

Since then, there had been little fighting. Cor’s first experience in real battle—not counting a few rides to the western villages that had fallen prey to raids, where the enemy hardly reached one hundred men—had been in the High King Peter’s last push against the Giants, when the Treaty of Ettinsmoor had finally been settled. It had been the largest battle Cor and Corin had witnessed to date, and a relatively easy victory, as the larger body of Giants and remnants of the White Witch’s reign had already been defeated.

 _War is an ugly thing_ , King Peter had reminded Corin, when Corin had boyishly remarked that it hadn’t lasted nearly as long as he had hoped. _There is no pride in ruling a land where men are dying in your name._

Now, Corin had disappeared. Some servants had remarked that they had seen him in one of the towers, or that someone had caught sight of him in one of the taverns in town. Thankfully, that had seemed to be an isolated incident. It would have been profoundly embarrassing to have the Prince of Archenland drunk among the townspeople while his brother organized the last stand against Calormen.

For the time being, however, Cor intended to let him be. He couldn’t bring himself to feel resentful of his brother when he himself wished he could do the very same thing.

“Here are the maps you requested, Your Majesty.” The servant bowed, and Cor nodded at his reflection in the stained-glass window, turning away from it and towards Dar and Myn. The door shut behind the retreating servant.

Dar opened the scrolls one by one and stretched them out over the table. Some seemed relatively new, their colors bright and easy to read, while one or two seemed so faded that Cor wondered if they were even accurate still.

“It has been many centuries since Calormen and Archenland faced each other in true battle,” Myn said, frowning. “If anything good has come from their striking us so recently, it is that we have a glimpse into their modern warfare strategies.”

“Two hundred men is nothing, Myn,” Dar replied grimly. We have had a glimpse of one pebble, whilst the entire body is a mountain. Much of this will be pure conjecture.”

Cor ran a hand through his hair and tried to clear his mind from worry to focus on facts, instead. “What do we know of the new Tisroc?”

“Little word has left Calormen of late, although it is clear that there is some political turmoil. I have heard word of him being called a usurper, but that is hardly new when it comes to the Calormenes. Every son has a claim to the throne, and they quarrel over it until one of them is dead and the other rises to power, and so on. Suffice to say, all Tisrocs have been the same when it comes to their relation to us—they loathe us, and crave our land and its riches.”

“Perhaps things would have been different, had Jarrash become Tisroc rather than Rabadash,” Dar mused, shaking his head. “But the more sensible ones do not survive long. If this Tisroc has the support to raise an army against us, it is clear that he is just as much of a threat as Rabadash was, if not even greater. With Rabadash, at least, we knew of his hot-headedness.”

“And our knowledge of that did nothing to stop him,” Cor said grimly. “Very well. What must we do now?”

He looked to Dar. Dar had ridden to Narnia often, in the early days of the Four, when Archenland had sent its people to support the rebuilding of their army—and to know if it would be possible to establish a strong alliance. He was, therefore, easily one of the most experienced in the realm.

Dar seemed troubled. “Assuming they follow the same path Rabadash did, they would reach the Winding Arrow within two days at most. Their cavalry is swift, and their footmen hardy.”

“But within those two days there would be little water,” Myn remarked. “We could cut off their access to the river. A thirsty army can do nothing.”

“We have too small a force for this. Desperation is also a great source of energy for battle. The area around the Arrow is much too open to withstand them. We would be surrounded within minutes, even if Narnia decides to send aid.”

Cor frowned. The map had lines like veins stretching out from Anvard, to all directions; trails and paths and roads of many types. The ridges of the mountains stood in dark, mysterious shapes around the borders, its most travelled passes marked with a multitude of lines.

But in his mind’s eye, he could still see the towering shapes of unknown mountains where sand merged into hard ground, and the sound of water, and the song of that first nightingale.

“What of this place?” he said, first quietly, and then pulling the larger map towards him. Dar and Myn watched from either side of him. “We could wait for them here. Our archers would have higher ground, and they would have to file in. It would be a safer chance than to meet the full force of their troops head-on.”

“I thought of it as well,” Dar said, nodding. “But any place in that path would suffice. We could effectively push them back out into the desert.”

Cor wanted to laugh at such a hopeful scenario, but said nothing. Acting under the delusion that they had any chance of winning was more effective than giving in to the sinking feeling of loss.

“There is water there,” he remarked. “Enough for our troops. If we set up camp here,” and he indicated the place with his finger, his mind rushing through images of reaching it with aching feet and drinking the sweet, cool water with relief. “We can keep the water source to ourselves and corral the Calormenes at the narrowest part of the pass.”

“It is reasonable,” Myn agreed, leaning back in his seat. “And it is far enough from our villages to give warning should worse come to worst.”

Cor nodded, placing both his palms on the table and looking down at the map. His eyes wandered Northwards, towards where Cair Paravel sat cradled between mountains and beaches, her glittering towers shining even through the parchment’s rendition. Narnia’s lands stretched out green and fertile, whilst the South, below the ridges and rocks of Archenland, seemed like a barren, brown wasteland.

“How much time do you estimate we have?” he asked quietly.

Both Lords sighed, glancing at each other. It was Dar who finally spoke, his mouth a firm line beneath his dark moustache. “They will depart before the week is done, no doubt. They have enough slaves to supply them with weaponry and armor, and enough preparation to have their provinces rush to their call.”

“So we must also do our best,” Cor murmured. In the end, the farmers’ efforts to restore their city defenses and evacuate their women and children had proved to have more foresight than the King and his Council’s. There was little comfort to be found in that realization.

“Heralds have already gone out; I am afraid that the men will not be surprised. Within the next few days we will assemble our army. I expect there will be little training to be carried out, if boys have been looking to the South for some time since Rabadash attacked.”

“I expect we would have little time to train them, either way,” Dar said, looking troubled. “I will do my best, however, to ensure that they are as prepared as they can be.” He shook his head slowly. “Herein lies the difference between our people and Calormen. Calormen has always bred its men for war, and they are at war often, whether it is with other nations or among their own. Archenland does not have this advantage.”

“Archenland has some concept of peace and harmony, evidently,” Cor replied shortly. But what did any of it matter, if it was those steeped in blood and war who would finally win?

Cor sighed. “Very well. Please ensure that enough supplies are being brought into Anvard and divided between the citadel and the army. The women and children who remain near us retreat into the citadel walls. We can protect them here, within the fortress.”

Dar nodded. “They will be safe here. I will dispatch some to make the necessary arrangements. But as for army supplies, we must yet await to know how many men will be coming from each area. So far it is still a mere estimate.”

Myn agreed. “But we must also see to the reinforcement of defenses in villages that will be harmed if we are to retreat.” And it was obvious to all that they would have to. “There are still villages that are half-burned to the ground.”

“We can reinforce walls; that is a simple enough task, and our men will be making their way in that direction regardless. But it is little insurance, and there is no time to rebuild villages. Those able-bodied should join the army, and the rest flock here to the fortress, along with what supplies they have. We cannot afford to lose time.”

The Lords left soon after, speaking between themselves. Cor remained in the room, his eyes fixed on the maps. Men would be sent out shortly, without assurance from the Lords in the rest of the country, and without hearing back from Peridan, it was terribly difficult to predict how the war would go.

And the dreams still persisted, vivid and continuous in a way that made them impossible to ignore. Clearly, there was truth to them. He himself had never seen the area on the map that he had described, but Dar had readily agreed with him—Dar, who had surely travelled those lands before Cor had even been born. How could he still be seeing real places in his dreams that he had never seen with his own eyes?

The children, the last time he had dreamed them, had been resting in the same spot he had described, fleeing from some unknown threat. He still struggled to understand what the threat was, but more than anything, he could feel their yearning to come North. He wanted to communicate with them; to inform them that they ought to travel West, instead, or return home to Calormen, if that was where they were from. There would soon be nothing left of the Northern lands they so craved to reside in.

.

Giving word only to Darrin, he set out on horseback towards the mountain range. He could not see the place where the children were sleeping in his dreams, but he could see the double-peak of Mount Pire, and the sun shining from the West as it prepared itself to set.

He rode without any companions, acutely aware that it was quite likely that this would be the last time he did so. Whatever came to pass, he would surely spend what was left of his life leading soldiers from one place to another. There would be no time to be spared for the King to take leisurely rides on his own.

Cor took a deep breath of the fresh air and urged his horse up the steep path. Here the rock cleared somewhat, jutting out towards the abyss, and the sands of the desert were visible in the distance. As he watched, a cloud of brown dust lifted itself into the air and raced through the horizon, a small replica of the sandstorms he had heard of in legends.

For what felt like the hundredth time in only one day, he wished his father were still there. Selfishly, because he wished that the burden of decision didn’t fall upon his own shoulders—but also to merely have him at his side; to be comforted, even when all comfort would be untruths, in the face of such terrible odds.

Behind him, Anvard stretched out, still scarred from Rabadash’s onslaught. There would be no time for those wounds to heal; it was time to fight again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was long, to make up for the delay! I used NaNoWriMo to finish the first draft of the entire story, so I'm really only editing now, and adding some extra research details. I hope you enjoyed it!
> 
> If you're interested in a canon version of Aravis in Calormen, that showcases more women who may or may not appear in this story in the timeline where she does live in Archenland, please read [in the andaruni](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7925506/chapters/18111703), a story I wrote for this year's Narnia Fic Exchange! There's a lot more of Durriya and Khalid there.
> 
> Thanks for sticking with this story! There's a lot more to come, as the Tarkaans from each province make their way to Tashbaan, and Cor awaits an answer from Peridan.


	7. Chapter 7

_She was breathless. Hwin was galloping faster than ever, but it was doing them no good. Every pore in her skin, even beneath the scalding sun, was hyper-aware of the threat behind them. Just ahead, she could see the back of Shasta's golden head as he sped ahead of them on Bree. Bree had been a charging horse—much faster than her mare, who had been a gift to a young Tarkheena, hardly suitable for fleeing an enemy._

_She was screaming without air in her lungs, and she knew she was making no noise. There was no use in any of it, really. She could feel her very skin tingling with the proximity of the beast. She could hear its roar in her ears. She was hunched over Hwin, but it would do them no good. Ahead, Shasta's head turned. At the very least he would reach the North. He, at least, deserved to go unharmed._

_He turned, and she saw his blue eyes widen, steely resolve materializing in them. And then  he slid off the horse._

_As she opened her mouth to cry out in alarm, what felt like a thousand daggers slit through her clothes and into the flesh of her back, in such a clean, effective slash that in her numb shock she almost admired it. She could feel the skin on her back tear, and then the stinging, burning agony of the pain..._

.

She screamed.

Arms were seizing her. She shook them off, her throat hoarse. Something was on her mouth, something warm and foreign. She reeled back over the sheets, blinking rapidly to adjust her eyes to the light. Rabadash was here, again, his small, sharp knife poised at her breast... he had finally come to punish her.

"Aravis!" someone gasped.

Her eyes focused. Badrih swam into view, her eyes wide and insistent as she slowly lowered her hands. She had been covering Aravis’ mouth.

"You were screaming," she said, glancing over her shoulder.

Aravis shuddered and fell back onto the bed, and then, with a low cry, turned over, pressing her face to the pillow. Her back felt so tender that she could nearly feel the blood soaking through her clothes. The lion had been in her dream, not in real life, but it had caused her harm nonetheless.

She forced her eyelids open again, reaching for the fabric of her gown. It felt no different than usual. And yet the skin of her back hurt so terribly...

Badrih was kneeling by her bed, one hand on Aravis' wrist. The image felt too familiar.

Aravis swallowed. Then she drew a shuddering breath, and sat up, running a hand over her face.

“Was it him?” Badrih asked evenly, taking in the way her hand shook.

Mechanically, Aravis shook her head.

“I shall have the slaves bring you tea,” Badrih said, standing up and eyeing her with some worry before retreating quickly towards the door.

Aravis bit down hard on her lip. She reached behind her and gently touched the skin of her back. It burned as if the injury had been real, but her own touch had no effect on it. The same intensity remained, as if the pain was a phantom that refused to leave her.

“I—” Aravis struggled to get the words out as Badrih returned to her side. Her throat still seemed to close in on itself, her muscles tense from the pain. She could still hear the roar of the lion, ringing in her ears. She reached up with another hand and felt tears drying on her cheeks. Her chest was still heaving. “I had another dream.”

Badrih had always been the best among Rabadash’s four wives to deal with an emergency. Aravis could see it in the woman’s eyes, now – that collected, tense caution as she sat on the carpet beside her bed.

Aravis forced herself to take a steadying breath. “Can you look at my back?”

Wordlessly, Badrih undid the top ties that held her gown together, as Aravis turned her back on her. She lowered the fabric gently, but Aravis had to hold her breath, both to stop herself from gasping with pain and out of fear – although she knew rationally that there could be nothing there.

“Nothing,” Badrih finally said, closing the gown for her again and turning to look at her, frowning. “What did you see in the dream?”

“I…” Aravis trailed off. Tentatively, she stood up from the bed, feeling her muscles burn in protest. She ignored them. The pain would have to disappear. It was not real.

And yet, the memory of Hwin’s gallop and the golden gleam of Shasta’s hair as he turned to look at her…

She swallowed. “There was a lion.”

The children had now crossed the desert. They were on the border with Archenland.

Badrih spoke hesitantly, as if Aravis were an animal she was afraid to startle. “The lion is a demon-figure. The barbarian god is…”

“I know. I do not understand why my mind is playing such tricks on me.”

“Did the lion strike?”

Aravis hesitated, digging her toes into the carpet and willing the pain to fade. “Yes.”

“Then perhaps the meaning is clear.”

They looked at each other for a long moment, until Aravis turned away and shook herself. The pain was fading, and she could hear the distant cries of merchants and roosters. “What do you believe?” she asked quietly.

Behind her, Badrih hesitated. “It is not my place to spread fear, even to you,” she said. “But the wise men in the city say that no Tisroc can survive a battle against the demons of the North.”

“That is a lie,” Aravis snapped. “There is no curse.”

But the pain was real; she had never felt anything realer.

.

It was a rash thing, to begin a war against a country she did not know. Indeed, all she knew of Archenland—and by extension, Narnia—was what was whispered among those in the Tarkaans’ homes and what Rabadash had confided through mutters of anger, which were less directed at her than they were born of such intense hatred that they escaped him of their own accord. Rabadash loathed the North to unprecedented heights. While all Tisrocs before him had lusted for barbarian kindoms, Rabadash had been propelled by a more personal vendetta. He had often whispered of Queen Susan in the night, when he was prone to turn the most violent.

But as she pored over maps and charts of what Calormen knew of the North, and came across the old accounts of the travels of Tarkaans through Narnia and Archenland, particularly the letters of the now deceased Prince Jarrash in the first few years of the Four’s reign, she found it difficult to feel much of anything towards the barbarians. They seemed, for the most part, willing to trade; although their mistrust of the South – a warranted suspicion, clearly – limited Calormene access to the North.

A historian from Teebeth had dared to propose, during Adeben Tisroc’s time, that the Calormenes had originally come from the North in times beyond collective memory, mixing with the Southern Tribes and creating their own race. He had been met with much public outcry at such a blasphemous claim; Tarkaans and Tashkhid everywhere had responded with a resounding retort: _North and South are as different as fire and water._ And with a quieter question: _if so, then whyever would we have left_? The Tisroc had ended the conversation by promptly having the historian executed.

The Tashkhid often made great speeches denouncing the North as Tash’s yearned-for land, which was stolen by the gods’ enemy—the demon of the North. She had always suspected, but now was wholly sure, that no engraving or scripture anywhere acknowledged the existence of the Northern countries as anything close to an enemy. It was the Tashkhid’s own greed, supported and strengthened by that of the Tisrocs, that had brought about such ideas.

And indeed the North looked beautiful and promising in her dreams, whether or not the dreams could be counted as the truth. Even the demons—the raven, and she supposed the horses, as well, although it made her oddly uncomfortable to think of them as demons—did not seem to her as violent and frightful as the stories passed from mouth to mouth would have her believe.

But war was a necessity; for the stability of the country, and for the stability of her reign. Already, she toyed with the idea of sending Durriya to live far in the North, on the border with Ettinsmoor. Perhaps if they were to establish a colony there, she would be better pleased and easier to control.

Durriya was yet a matter she had not dealt with. The child was still existing—a child that would likely grow up bearing bitterness, fed to him by his relatives; who would seek to one day overthrow her.

It was a matter for the future, she reminded herself. After all, she did not even know if she would survive a year.

More nations were arriving. Zalindreh was the first after Tehishbaan, led by Corradin Tarkaan, visibly worn from months of battle in the South. He had been a close ally of Rabadash, but he kept his eyes averted – although Aravis suspected it was less out of deference than it was out of distaste.

“I bring you five hundred warriors, hungry for war,” he announced. “They are willing to fight to the death, each and every one of them, for the triumph of your glorious reign and the taking of the barbarian lands.”

“Thank you, Corradin Tarkaan,” she replied. “For your courageous battling against our enemies. This land is indebted to you for your strength and cleverness in the field of battle. We will need such skills again. For this is the most ambitious of our endeavors since Ilsombreh Tisroc set out to expand the Empire.”

“You did well,” Ishamiel said quietly when Corradin left. “I fear, however, that Corradin Tarkaan’s sympathy yet lies with your late husband. He remains a part the vicious majority.”

.

And indeed, the leader of said vicious majority made his appearance soon after, as Aravis made her way to the throne room. Marekh Tarkaan delivered the news, less nervous in mannerisms than usual—he seemed to have grown somewhat accustomed to her presence—although she could see the apprehension in his eyes.

“O Tisroc, be it known to you that Fareez Tarkaan, Bilash Tarkaan’s firstborn son, rides hither.”

Aravis nodded. The skin on her back tingled, but she ignored it, pulling her shawl closer over her. The guards on either side of the door stepped aside, bowing, so that she could enter. “Direct him to me upon his arrival.”

Marekh nodded, trailing behind her, but then hesitated. “O Tisroc,” he said gravely, lowering his voice. “His half-sister is your predecessor’s wife, who is currently confined to her rooms. Doubtless he will ask to see her. What are we to say?”

Aravis stopped at the foot of the dais and took a breath of the crisp air, where the high ceilings held out the hot stuffiness of Tashbaan. It was an evil that could not be avoided. To deny access to Durriya would only serve to make Tehishbaan all the more spiteful towards her rule. She sighed.

"They may see her,” she replied. “But report to me the frequency and nature of the visits.”

The Tehishbaan assembly did, indeed, enter with flair more appropriate for a show of force than for a pledge of allegiance. The tall Tarkaan at its head wore a burgundy turban, momentarily inherited from Bilash Tarkaan his father while acting in his stead, as was the fashion for the Head of Tehishbaan. His eyes were green, his skin slightly lighter than that of the men that followed him, and he might have appeared handsome if not for the carefully collected viciousness Aravis could see in his eyes. He was Durriya’s half-brother; equally fierce, more adequately armed.

Fareez Tarkan remained standing as the others bowed. There were nearly thirty of them, Aravis counted—all stern-looking, experienced warriors, although they had shed their weapons upon entering.

She remained still upon her seat, her features expressionless. She had been expecting the tension in the air. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Ishamiel slip into the room as well, a hand on the hilt of his scimitar. Marekh stood still as a statue. Fareez, however, had eyes only for her.

“O Tisroc, may you live forever in such splendor and beauty,” Fareez Tarkaan’s son said, his deep voice thinly skirting the line of the respectful into the indecent, dripping with mocking disbelief. “Truly, this is beyond my wildest imaginings.”

He would never have said such a thing to Rabadash. Aravis raised an eyebrow.

“I thank your father for his loyal contribution of arms and men to this war. Tehishbaan will be greatly rewarded upon our taking of the North.”

“Your generosity knows no bounds,” he said with a smile. His white teeth shone, bright like a snarling dog’s. “My father prays now for our steady journey towards victory. We have always watched the peak of Mount Pire from Tehishbaan and longed for a day in which our people could inhabit those fertile lands.”

“Then bid your men rest, for they shall be needed soon. I will summon you tonight to join the War Council.”

Fareez’s smile was frozen on his face, like a violent mask. As he waved his men away and they all touched their foreheads to the floor once more before retreating, his eyes searched the room slowly, moving over the Grand Vizier as if he were nothing but a piece of furniture. He met Ishamiel’s gaze.

“So here is the late Tisroc’s brother, upon him be the peace of the gods,” he said, his mouth twisting as if he had tasted something sour. “Striking, how the mouse becomes a lapdog.”

“Striking,” Ishamiel replied, his hand unwavering upon his scimitar’s hilt. “How loose a fit your father’s shoes are.”

“Were he here, his words would not be so gentle,” was the icy reply. Fareez turned his eyes back to Aravis. “Where resides my dear sister, whom the gods blessed to touch the ground of your household? Scarce word has reached us of her.”

Aravis held his gaze. “She resides in this palace, under my protection.”

He took a breath. His smile was bared like a line of knives. “She is yet nursing a child of tender years—a child of great… _prominence_.”

Aravis raised her eyebrows. Fareez fell silent, but his suggestion had already been made.

“Is there anything you wish to say, Tarkaan?”

He closed his lips over his teeth. “No, O exalted Tisroc. Forgive me, it must have slipped my mind.” He paused, and then, as if in afterthought, spoke again. “I hope,” he said softly. “That you remember that I, in the name of my father and all generations before us, command two thousand men of the main body of your army. We provide the weapons and the arms that will ensure your victory.”

“I know this.”

“We have also the privileged position of riding in the frontlines. By our arms is the Tisroc’s safety assured. That is what my father has bid the Tisroc, may she live forever, to remember. The long-standing alliance between Tehishbaan and the house of Tash—the house of _Rabadash Tisroc_ —will not be forgotten.”

His last words were harsh and pointed. Tehishbaan had thrown in its lot with Aravis’ enemies, and two thousand of its men were now within the walls of Tashbaan. It was not a number large enough to overthrow Tashbaan’s own troops, but upon the battlefield nothing would be certain. Bilash Tarkaan’s power stretched far and wide, greatly supplied by his riches and prestige.

It was not entirely true that Tehishbaan had supported the Tisrocs before her—indeed, many suspected that Bilash aspired to shift power away from the Tashkhid and to his own province, and  to make it the new capital—but before the threat of Aravis’ rise to power, perhaps even old enmities would be forgotten.

Aravis did not raise her voice, but the words fell sharp from her lips. “If there is nothing more, then you are free to leave.”

Fareez stood still as a statue for a moment, his green eyes on hers, burning with intent. Then he bowed again, but turned heel so sharply that it defeated any pretense of respect.

Ishamiel watched the doors close behind Fareez until the hall fell silent once more. Only then did his hand leave his scimitar. His expression was grim.

“You do well to not march into war beside him.”

It was little comfort. Aravis stood up and paced the length of the dais, scowling. “And how does it in any way work in my advantage to allow him to go in my stead?”

“He will not be going in your stead.”

“Someone must!” Aravis paused in her steps and faced him. “Someone _must,_ surely, and I cannot be rash in that decision. It would have to be someone of a rank high enough to command the respect of all the commanders—and yet I cannot think of a single person in such a rank whom I could trust.”

Ishamiel sighed. “The most important thing at this moment is your safety upon the throne, and to make a show of power by commanding the Tarkaans to your will.”

Marekh Tarkaan finally spoke up. “I will endeavor to present you with a suitable solution.”

Aravis shook her head bitterly. “It matters not, in the end, if the result is to have the army ride back to us only to overtake the Palace.”

“They are not fools,” Ishamiel said.

“I am a woman on the throne, Ishamiel,” she snapped. “They _will_ be. Do you think the bloodshed and raiding of the North will calm their bloodthirst?” She let out a low laugh. “No, it will only drive them drunk in their own power, until their coveting of mine becomes too much to bear.”

Ishamiel did not seem to know what to say. Slowly, Aravis stepped down from the dais, gathering her shawl around her. Her back tingled again, with the invisible wounds. Her thoughts felt like a dark cloud, heavy within her skull.

A side door opened and a messenger bowed low at the threshold.

"O Tisroc," he called out, pressing his forehead to the ground. "Word has come from Kidrash Tarkaan of Calavar. He approaches the city, to arrive when the moon is high."

Aravis’ breath caught in her throat. She forced herself to remain calm, and turned away from the men slightly, crossing her arms in front of her. She had been doing her best to forget the fact that her father would be arriving as well. "The gates will be closed by then."

"It is his request that the gates be opened for Calavar's troops, and that the trumpets be made to ring."

Aravis glanced at Ishamiel. He returned her gaze grimly.

"This was to be expected," he said under his breath.

She scowled. "It is not customary to arrive at night, much less to disturb the city with heralds.” She lowered her voice, swallowing down the knot in her throat. “He says this because he is my father."

"Perhaps he is justified."

Her eyes flashed. "My rank does not extend to him."

Ishamiel glanced towards the window. "Perhaps he should be made aware of the fact."

She could not, however, leave Calavar stranded outside the walls. It would be fair, truly—at the very least for her father. Had she not had to wait all night beyond the walls to enter Tashbaan as a beggar?

She started, suddenly reeling with confusion. That was not the truth; she had been thinking of the dream. But the dream was now so closely woven with the truth that she found herself confused as to which part of it was real, and which part had been dreamed.

The messenger awaited patiently.

Anger rose in her, lashing out painfully. She had not seen her father in years since he had given her into the arms of the Tisroc, and in the instances later when he had come to Tashbaan, she had avoided him—something that was not difficult to do when one was married to Rabadash, who, however viciously he might dislike her, was fiercely jealous of his wives and would prefer to keep them locked away from anyone’s eyes.

Now Kidrash was already expecting, having exchanged no word with her at all, that he would be received into the city as royalty.

She could not afford to drive a wedge between them before the other Tarkaans. It would not do for them to see weakness there; if they believed that Calavar stood with the Tisroc, they would be more loath to betray her. Calavar was a crucial power in the war. And in the face of the Tarkaans opposed to her, an ally was sorely needed.

She clenched her hands into fists and let out a shaking breath. “Send word to the Guard to let them in,” she told the messenger, her voice hollow. “But no trumpets shall be blown. Let them come to the Palace unheralded—after all, at such an hour the city streets will be cleared.”

The messenger bowed, and left quickly.

Ishamiel raised an eyebrow. “Your relationship with your family is one requiring much deliberation.”

Her eyes flashed. “It is not a matter upon which I need advising. From the moment in which I was banished from my home and delivered to Tashbaan as a _gift_ , Kidrash Tarkaan has ceased to be any kin of mine.”

…

The morning dawned cold. Cor could feel it sharp on his face; could see the stinging red on the nose and cheeks of the men around him. The Guard was dressed in full armor now; he, for one, felt like he had never taken it off. All of this seemed like it was merely an extension of the nightmarish day Rabadash had assaulted Anvard.

They had ridden to the edge of the city before the people were out and about, and crossed the grassy terrain that arched upwards into the mountains. There was only one small village between Anvard and the Pass, tentatively inhabited during the days of the Witch and only now beginning to thrive. It had mercifully remained untouched by Rabadash’s forces.

Word had come in the shape of a Talking Eagle, which had swept over the battlements and called out that Narnia was fast approaching. A messenger would most likely be dispatched again once the Narnian assembly had crossed the Pass, but Cor couldn’t bring himself to await idly within the castle walls.

No, if Peridan had sent men so swiftly already, then they surely must be riding at full pace. He appreciated the gesture; it was generous, and impressive. He had not expected such speed, much less when Narnia was still struggling to put itself together and had not been in a mindset of war, as Archenland had. But he was rather perplexed at it—although there was haste, surely Peridan could not be under the impression that Calormen had already set out?

Only Dar among the Lords had ridden out with him. The Guard was assembled around them, bearing banners that flapped in the wind, as they stopped on the outskirts of the village, gazing towards the gap in the vast line of mountains, and to the rocky road lined with trees that steadily grew in size, stretched out towards Narnia. The horses were impatient, perhaps sensing the meaning of the new weight in armor that they carried, and expecting battle.

“Not yet,” Cor murmured to his charger, patting its mane. “Not yet.”

When the dusky sky turned blue in the East, glinting over Anvard’s roofs, one of the men saw the Eagle again. It saw them, too, and swiftly swept down, its impressive size startling the horses as its wings beat down on the air while it descended. Cor seized the reins tightly, waiting nearly on baited breath as the Eagle descended.

Turning its head sideways, it fixed a beady eye on Cor and bowed from the rock upon which it perched.

“Your Majesty,” it croaked. “King Peridan of Narnia has sent me ahead. He has crossed the Pass and is swift approaching.”

Cor’s eyes widened. He felt his breath catch in his chest. The men around him looked equally shocked.

“The King has come himself?” he finally exclaimed, too surprised to believe it.

“Yes, Your Majesty.” The Eagle bobbed once, its strange version of a bow. “He leads an army of five hundred strong.”

In the face of their bewilderment, it merely extended its wings once more and returned to the sky, flying towards the Pass to where Peridan presumably rode towards them.

“They must have ridden all night to reach here with such time,” Cor said under his breath.

But if they had expected Peridan’s army to seem weary when they approached, they were surprised. Narnia’s Lion flew high above all heads, gleaming golden in the morning light, and Narnia’s soldiers were all the more colorful. As always, even after years of close proximity to Narnia and near constant travels to and fro, Cor felt his heart rise in his chest at the sight of the Narnians—fierce felines with colorful fur; large, hulking minotaurs; dwarves with long beards, nearly buried under their heavy armor; fauns and satyrs with bright eyes and sharp swords. And at the head of them all, Peridan, his golden hair shining in the morning sun—a welcome, much-loved face in the midst of so much despair.

Cor dismounted immediately, and before him Peridan did the same as his company came to a halt. Pulling off his riding gloves, Cor reached out and shook Peridan’s hand. The other man was slightly taller than him, and older by seven years. Cor had always, if rather unconsciously, looked up to him—perhaps because of the high regard in which the High King Peter had always held Peridan.

The newly crowned King of Narnia grasped his hand tightly, offering him a grim smile. “Congratulations on your coronation, Your Majesty,” he said gravely. “I only wish it had not been in such terrible circumstances.”

Cor smiled ruefully. “It has been a difficult time. For you also. I extend the same to you… congratulations, and condolences.”

Peridan nodded once, averting his eyes. Cor looked at the Narnians behind him. Despite the liveliness of the company, it was clear that they too, had gone through irreparable loss. Archenland had lost a King. Narnia had lost an entire family of rulers.

“I cannot thank you enough for coming, much less for leading the company yourself,” Cor continued. “We did not expect such a swift response. It is a great generosity in such times.”

“Narnia and Archenland have ever been entwined; I would be folly in not answering to her call with all the forces I could muster.” Peridan looked behind him, at the soldiers who had followed him. “Here we are five hundred—the strongest, and swiftest to prepare. More will follow. I bade my people to hurry, for I know in what dire straits you find yourself now.”

Cor shook his head, frowning. “I could not have asked for even this much.” And indeed, he could feel his voice catching in his throat, although it was followed by a rush of triumph. Were the Council to witness this arrival, they would surely be embarrassed at the ease in which they had contemplated betraying Narnia and the union that had tied both countries to each other for so long.

Peridan smiled. “Furthermore,” he said in a lower voice, looking around them, at the rocky plains that were now illuminated by the morning. “This is my birthplace, and my first home. If not as a King, then as a man I am bound to protect her.”

Cor smiled back. “And she welcomes you with open arms. Come, my friend. Anvard, food and rest await you, although it may be only for a short time, given the circumstances.”

As they rode back to the city, Peridan and Cor side by side, Cor felt slightly dizzied at how quickly things had changed. Within the span of weeks, Peridan had gone from a mere knight to the King of Narnia, the greatest power in the North, and Cor had become a King after knowing Peridan in his childhood. Their roles had been changed in astounding ways.

.

“We came in haste, because I suspect that there is much to be done when it comes to preparing nearby settlements for the onslaught of war,” Peridan said gravely, looking to the Council that was assembled around the table. “Indeed, were it not for the turmoil in our own lands, we would have hastened here sooner to lend our hand to reinforcing the Southern border.”

“It is not only a matter of reinforcing, Your Majesty,” Lord Shar said, and though his tone was deferential, it had a rather steely tone to it. “But of assisting evacuees to take refuge here in Anvard. By now it is much too late to carry out all the work that ought to be done.”

Cor fixed the Lord with a look, but Shar seemed very occupied with avoiding his gaze. “Thank you, once more, for your extraordinary kindness. We are estimating nearly ten thousand soldiers from Calormen. From here we might produce three thousand, at most.”

The silence that followed was grim. Peridan nodded.

“Narnia can assemble a few thousand more, we hope—I am still awaiting news from Ettinsmoor.”

“Will they come?” Shar’s gaze was indisputably hard.

If Peridan was fazed by the tone, he did not show it. It occurred to Cor that perhaps he was used to dealing with the Council; after all, he had often been a mediator between the Four and Lune, given his history with Archenland, and was bound to have been involved in many a discussion with them. Perhaps, Cor realized, Peridan had known exactly what the state of affairs in Archenland would be like.

He felt a wave of thankfulness wash over him. It would be akin to relief if the entire situation weren’t so suffused with despair.

“I have sent out heralds. Narnians know well the invaluable force that is Archenland, and how crucial this border is in safeguarding all our lands. If Archenland falls, we may well all follow within days. My people know this. They did not go through the Witch’s Winter to believe that they can make do without considering how one invasion brings about a larger one.” He paused, looking around at them all. “And that is without considering the love and faith that exists between our peoples.”

His gaze was steady; not threatening, but calmly imposing.

Cor almost smiled. The Council—and indeed he himself, at times—had underestimated Peridan.

“That gives us a considerable number, albeit merely a hopeful one,” Cor said, breaking the tense silence and hoping that Shar would understand that this was not the time to further his agenda against Peridan. “If your people are willing, Peridan, perhaps they could be dispatched to the villages requiring aid at this moment? And you and I could arrange for a battle strategy.”

“That is well,” Peridan nodded.

“If there are no more concerns?” Cor looked at those seated around the table, keeping his expression hard. A silent warning; now was not the time. Shar, thankfully, stood down.

It was strange, Cor thought, that both he and Peridan were the two youngest in the room.

.

In the study, Cor poured them both mugs of mead as Peridan sat in front of the desk and examined the maps there, running a finger over the trails. Cor hadn’t anticipated feeling so comforted at the presence of another King; although he knew for a fact that Peridan was likely less prepared for this than he was, not having expected to ever have to become the heir to the Four, to have him at his side during the war would prove a comfort. Peridan had always been the High King Peter’s right hand—someone reliable who, although at the time lower in rank than Cor, had often given him advice on matters of court.

The wind had grown stronger since the morning, storm clouds gathering again. Cor hoped that they would just pass them by; mud in the roads would just make everything harder for everyone involved. A storm could set them back further than nearly anything else.

“Who did you leave at the Cair?” Cor asked, handing Peridan the glass and settling down on the opposite side of the desk.

Peridan nodded his thanks and took a sip. “Dorick. He is well respected, and with an iron will. Narnia is safe in his hands, with the support of the Council.”

At the very least Narnia had a Council that its King could trust. Cor watched him gravely. “These are unstable times. I must admit that it surprised me that you would leave so soon.”

Peridan smiled wryly, looking up from the maps. “Indeed,” he said. “But although I will remain hopeful before the eyes of both our peoples, I do not remain under the illusion that all will be well.” He sighed. “Upon my coronation there was already talk of this being the beginning of a Dark Age for Narnia—but I did not expect it to come upon us so swiftly, with such ruthlessness.”

“Neither did I,” said Cor quietly.

 They sat in silence for a moment, until Cor shook himself. Now was not the time for mourning. He set down his cup and dispelled the thoughts from his mind.

“We are assuming an army nearing ten thousand, but we hardly know how realistic that is. In fact, we know very little about Calormen’s movements. Few of our spies remain.”

“In that regard, Narnia has been more fortunate,” Peridan replied. “We have our Talking Beasts, some of whom, we hope, have successfully infiltrated Calormen. I should be receiving word from them sometime soon.”

Yes, the Council had underestimated Peridan.

.

They rode out together in the afternoon, a small assembly of some of the Lords from nearby villages, and the captains of Peridan’s army. Nearly half of the men Cor had expected to gather had already assembled in Anvard—a sign of how much the kingdom had been waiting for war to break out. Most of them seemed to have sent their families away, or to have brought them along to take refuge within the citadel.

They crossed the Winding Arrow some hours into their journey, their horses expertly navigating the waters, yet twitching slightly in the cold wind. The Centaurs seemed unfazed by the cold water—perhaps accustomed to such journeys already—but the Minotaur grumbled deep in its throat, although none dared to remark upon his discomfort.

Some distance placed between them and the water, they stopped to look down at where the roots of the mountains formed the shapes they had seen in maps. And in Cor’s case… in dreams.

He was slightly out of breath from the whipping wind—although the threat of a storm had not turned into actual rain, thank the Lion—but his heart was beating with more force than was warranted. In his mind’s eye, he could recognize the paths he had taken in the dream; could almost hear the distant roar of a lion… of _the_ Lion, perhaps…

Peridan’s eyes were narrowed. “The place you spoke of…?”

“Beyond those peaks, towards where the tree line begins again.” Cor roused himself from his trance, although it was difficult, to focus on the present. He was continuously forced to delve back into the dream in search of the memory. He shifted in the saddle. “But I have never seen the place for myself; it would require our own exploration.”

An older Lord from a village West of Anvard rode up—Lord Kairn, with a greying beard and keen green eyes, one of the few who had fought in wars before. “Are we certain that the Calormenes will use this road? Surely it is not much too narrow for such an endeavor?”

Cor shook his head. “It is the swiftest path to Anvard, and where the Arrow runs shallowest.”

“It may be wiser to wait on this end,” Peridan mused, although he glanced at Kairn, as if reluctant to contradict Cor in the presence of one of his subjects. “There is risk in wedging ourselves so deeply in the mountains. It hampers upon a retreat.”

“If there is a need to retreat,” Cor said quietly. “Then it is already too late.”

He looked back at Kairn, and at the men who awaited some steps behind them. They seemed weary. He glanced at Peridan, and then down at the valley and the pass from where he could just see the beginning of the trees. “There is no use in lingering. Shall we?”

They rode down into the hollow of the valley, rocks skidding under the horses’ hooves. The closer they got to the place, the harder Cor’s heart seemed to beat. He spurred his horse on, until the captains and Peridan had fallen behind, although he forced himself to not ride out of sight. But he had a strange feeling—where was the girl? The girl who had been scarred by the Lion, who had ridden through this place in his dreams only the night before?

He could see her now so clearly that he knew she must be real; if not in the dream, then in some distant memory, perhaps of his childhood. How else could she feel so familiar? He could see plainly her every expression, her every gesture. Aravis.

A Calormene girl.

And Shasta… although the matter of Shasta, or himself, or in what ways they overlapped was still a mystery to him.

The valley was exactly as he had seen it, even with the sun dipping at a different angle than he remembered. There were the trees… there was the water. There was the plain upon which the Talking Horse had lain on its back, upon which he had dragged himself to the bank. There was the spot from where he had gazed up at Archenland and felt hope.

He felt a sudden wave of grief wash over him, at the naivety of Shasta—at the dream that he upheld with such faith, with such _yearning_. The North was no longer what it once had been.

 _Cor_ was no longer who he had once been.

He would have given so much to be Shasta.

There was a sound of hooves behind him and Peridan joined his side. In the distance, the other captains approached. If Cor had been capable of feeling much more than what he was already feeling, he would have felt guilt at leaving them behind. But as it was, he could only stare helplessly at their surroundings.

Peridan said nothing for a moment, appearing to look around them, but when Cor finally focused his thoughts on the matter at hand, he saw that Peridan’s eyes were also unseeing.

“It seems that we are both set to be the Last Kings of the North,” the Narnian King said softly, his expression serene, although the light in his eyes seemed clouded with heavy grief. “A dramatic end to a glorious tale.”

“I would have thought that in my place would stand a more well-equipped hero,” Cor remarked wryly.

Peridan let out a laugh, his serenity breaking. He reached out and patted Cor’s arm; a gesture of empathy. He sighed. “I did not expect to have to take the place of four.”

Cor glanced behind them. The captains had reached them now, Dar bringing up the rear, his expression guarded as usual. Two of the Archen Lords had stopped some distance away, surveying the fields. But Cor did not miss the glances they threw in his direction—more specifically, towards Peridan.

He felt a sudden surge of foreboding. Shar’s words had not been empty; if a man as well-learned as he was still harbored such greed towards the North, then the Lords who were less mellowed by the court were likely to hold more extreme views.

A war, now, was a signal of the onslaught of a new era—an opportunity a certain faction of Archenland’s population was sure to make use of. While they would not act against their King outright, or ride to Narnia themselves, they could certainly take advantage of chaos and confusion to forward their own plans—and possibly make the throne of Narnia available to the less-favored relatives of the Sons of Adam who had left Narnia before the Witch’s Winter.

Peridan, it seemed, was even more alone than Cor was.

As they rode back to Anvard, already having explored as much of the future campsite as they could, Cor fell back to join Dar’s side, keeping his voice low and unheard to the rest of the company.

“Please see to something for me.”

“Sire.”

Cor glanced at where Peridan rode between two of the Narnian centaurs, head held up high. “Make arrangements so that my Guard is split in half. I will have my men watch over the King of Narnia with the same dedication they show to me.”

Dar frowned slightly. “I shall do as you command, Sire, but… the King has a Guard of his own.”

“He does,” Cor said grimly. “But they will not be protecting him from _us_.”

…

“That is a careless enterprise, Tisroc, if I may be allowed to dissent.”

“You are allowed, Ishamiel, but I shall pursue it nonetheless.” Aravis crossed her arms, looking between Ishamiel, Lasaraleen, Marekh, Badrih and Aya. “I am _informing_ you of the fact, not requesting your permission.”

“And you will get yourself killed in battle with the North!” Lasaraleen gasped, aghast. “Marching in battle does nothing for you!”

“It is _everything_.” Aravis fixed her with a stern expression. “How can I be expected to send an army of ten thousand to find glory in the North, while I remain comfortably in my own Palace? How do I retain their respect?”

“You will have ushered them into a new age of the Empire. You will have _given_ them those new lands!”

“ _I_ will have done nothing. The ones who will have fought for them, who will have acquired Archenland and Narnia, will be the Tarkaans—namely, Fareez Tarkaan and perhaps even my own father. And they will return to Calormen with thousands cheering their name.” She turned her glare on Ishamiel. “Do you disagree?”

He wisely remained silent.

“This Empire is built upon warfare and brutality. That is the scale upon which character and power is weighed. This war is useless if it merely puts me below the Tarkaans in the public’s regard.”

“The war was a mad idea,” Lasaraleen said under her breath, but low enough for Aravis to pretend that she did not hear it.

Ishamiel looked away, his mouth a grim line. “It is true, Tisroc, that if you succeed you will have gained the support—or at least, the submission—of most of those who currently threaten your claim. But that is too small of a chance. The alternatives are too brutal to count. They would slit your throat in the midst of battle and claim that it was the enemy; and then we would see Bilash Tarkaan ride back and make Tehishbaan his capital, while your supporters are executed in cold blood. I will likely be your only ally on that road—except perhaps Kidrash Tarkaan, as he has a stake in this matter as well. But five hundred men is hardly enough to protect you from thousands.”

And he was right; of course he was. The war had, from the very beginning, been a mad idea, fueled by desperation—one last attempt to conserve what she had seized from Rabadash’s dying hands. But there was too much at stake. After all, what did she know of war?

But she _did_ know. She had learned enough about formations and cavalries from her father, and she knew the strengths of most provinces. And she could not merely toil in Tashbaan and expect to be allowed to continue to rule with nothing to subdue the violence of the Tashkhid and the Tarkaans. Something was needed; a distraction, a prey to redirect the pressure to. And Calormen had always been seeking an opportunity to strike. Why should Aravis not become the first Tisroc to take the North?

She would not cower in Tashbaan and send the armies to victory under another leader. The risks posed to those who would remain behind would have to be dealt with, but that was another matter. Gritting her teeth, she looked to the Grand Vizier.

“Have you an opinion?” she snapped.

Marekh Tarkaan bowed, and then nodded. “I believe you are in the right, O Tisroc. Marching to war is the best course of action, precisely because the Tarkaans do not expect you to.”

The room was silent. Aravis stared at the Grand Vizier for a moment, and then let out a breath. “Very well then,” she said. “The decision is made.”

.

 “I thought we had our eyes on him; he was not to stray beyond his house and the tavern,” Aravis snapped at Chlamash. Four other guards were following her beside them. The draft in the stairs swept through her skirts and made her feel like she was flying.

“We did, O Tisroc,” he said, with some embarrassment. “But it seems that he got away. It seems—” and he lowered his voice slightly, glancing around to ensure that no one else was listening. “That Khalid Tarkaan had a hand in bringing him here.”

Aravis let out a low noise of frustration. Of course Khalid would. Wreaking havoc in the Palace was the best way to show the other Tarkaans—whether they were present, or hearing of it in gossip as they feasted in the evenings leading up to their march to war—that the Tisroc did not have as strong a grip on power as she would like them to believe.

“And your men have not attempted to seize him?”

“He has been seized, O Tisroc. But we cannot arrest a Prince without your spoken command before him.”

He was, after all, royalty—royalty that she was not.

Ishaq Tarkaan had found his way into the Hall of Pillars, and there seemed to be more people there than usual; perhaps as a result of the bustle of war preparations, but Aravis would not have been surprised to learn that some of them had gotten wind of what was happening and had come out of curiosity, or been dispatched by curious masters. They stood in corners, watching and whispering, whilst five guards attempted to restrain Ishaq Tarkaan, who seemed even more disturbed than usual.

“Where is the Tisroc?” he half-shouted, his voice slurred. His turban was askew upon his head, partly unwound. His eyes were bloodshot, and a distinct smell of alcohol and smoke filled the air around him. “I wish to speak to the Tisroc!”

“She stands before you,” Aravis called out to him sharply. “This behavior is untoward in the furthest degree. Desist, before I instruct the guards to arrest you.”

“Khasik,” Ishaq said, his words slurring into a mutter. “Here’s my brother’s pretty wife.”

Aravis’ jaw clenched. Those near the walls of the hall could not possibly have heard them, as the Guard had skillfully shepherded them off, but some of the guards standing by averted their eyes uncomfortably.

Ishaq’s words were dangerous. She glanced around at the figures in the Hall of Pillars, some of whom were little more than black figures in the shadows. “Who brought you here?”

“Viper, viper, viper,” Ishaq muttered, almost as a song, reaching out a hand in her direction, although she was mercifully out of his reach. The guards struggled to both hold down his arms and preserve his dignity.

Aravis glared at him. Turning heel, she looked to Chlamash. “Have him kept in your custody, and assign new guards to him.” She would very much like to see Ishaq in the dungeons, as he likely deserved to be, but it would prove ineffective, in the end. The last thing she needed is to make herself look weaker than she already did—or to turn more Tarkaans against her.

Chlamash nodded rather jerkily, and swiftly gestured for the guards to pull Ishaq out of the hall. But Ishaq seemed to rouse himself back to life, and as he was removed from their midst, he shouted back at the Hall of Pillars, voice cracking: “Viper, VIPER, VIPER!”

With each cry, Aravis could feel her hear tremble beneath her ribs. Rabadash had screamed the same to her, during nights she dared not remember. She listened as Ishaq’s voice faded away, perhaps silenced by the guards, and then turned on the spot, looking around her.

Murmurs rose tentatively about the pillars, with the hesitant eagerness that always followed a scandal, and she braced herself for the face she knew she would find…

Khalid Tarkaan emerged from the shadows, calm and collected, lips curved into a smirk. He stopped at a deferential distance and held her gaze for a long moment.

“Curious, is it not? The drivel my brother comes up with,” he remarked, his voice little more than a whisper. The people slowly resumed their movement, and even the Tisroc was left behind as servants realized the risk of being caught away from their duties. But Aravis heard Khalid’s every word. “Yet they do say that the Tisroc was bitten by a viper.”

“So now you place your own drivel in the mouths of imbeciles.” His dark eyes, so similar to his late brother’s, shot panic down Aravis’ spine, but she forced herself to remain upright, and keep her voice level.

“As of late, any manner of creature can hold rank and speak orders,” he said coldly. “Surely my brother is the least of the degeneracy that has taken a hold of this government?” He let out a laugh as Chlamash’s expression turned to alarm, the Head of the Guard suddenly unsure whether to strike down a Prince or neglect to defend the Tisroc from slander. “Fear not, guard, for the _Tisroc_ will hear naught but honesty from me—something sorely lacking in this Palace _._ And she will know better than to threaten me, when she has brought into this city so many who detest her.”

Khalid took one step closer, and all pretense of respect disappeared. “You may feed them promises now, but it will not quench their hatred,” he spat, eyes boring into Aravis’. “And unlike them, I refuse to kneel with false flattery; I knew you as my brother’s whore, and a dead man’s whore you remain.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See, I told you the updates would be more regular now! Happy New Year, everyone!
> 
> Please leave a comment to let me know what you think :)


	8. Chapter 8

_The sun was high in the sky when he arrived, the bells on the horses jingling. He could see her from where he dismounted: a dark figure in the shadows of the trees in the garden, seeming slightly weaker and smaller than she had when he had first met her, but somehow more imposing._

_He left his men behind and walked through the hedge towards her, feeling rather nervous. She turned, her dark hair gleaming in the sunlight, and their eyes met. He had never realized just how beautiful she was; how straight she stood, her shoulders dignified—more than a Tarkheena: a young woman worn by travel and pain, clever and capable and suddenly the only other human he could imagine would ever understand what he had been through._

_She was taking in the sight of him, shocked. He could not blame her. Taking a step closer, she let out a breath._

_“Shasta?”_

.

_It’s Cor, now._

He awoke with a start, the words still humming in his brain. It was almost as if someone had whispered them into his ear. Reaching up to rub the weariness from his eyes, he realized that his hands were shaking. His heart was pounding.

The sun was high in the sky and he was meant to be meeting the Lords that were arriving soon. What had possessed him, to allow himself to drift off so quickly after having his lunch? He had hardly been able to swallow down his food anyway.

The table in front of him had been cleared of dishes; perhaps the servants had quietly removed them as he slept.

He looked around. A sentry was standing just beyond the doorway.

“How long was I asleep?” Cor asked, clearing his throat. His voice sounded exhausted, even to him.

The guard turned and bowed, looking only slightly embarrassed on his behalf. “Not long, Sire. The midday bells rang only a few minutes ago.”

With a quick nod, Cor let out a frustrated sigh and stood up. Peridan would be waiting for him. He could not possibly explain the manner in which the dreams had suddenly sought to invade even his waking hours.

As he passed by the mosaics of the window, the golden sunlight peeking through the clouds glittered against the green of the glass, and he thought he spotted Aravis standing just beyond, waiting…

He suppressed a shiver and strode out of the room.

The Council meeting had been moved to the Throne Hall this time, to make space for those who had come from across Archenland. A table had been set at the center of the hall, a large map spread out over it, and the Council members were already present, speaking among themselves. Large banners bearing the cross of Archenland hung from the pillars, and although it was almost festive in nature, the heavy armor weighing down the men in the room quickly set the mood as it had to be.

Cor paused just beyond the pillars near the side entrance under the pretense of adjusting his arm guard. Shar and Tran were in deep discussion, with Lord Archard and Lord Hawken standing close by. Lord Gerbold, the third of their region—which was colloquially named _The Farmlands_ , for its uncharacteristically fertile soil mere miles away from where earth gave way to rocky, uninhabitable slopes—was exchanging niceties with two men from Lord Kairn’s assembly.

It was Archen, Hawken and Gerbold that were causing Cor growing unease. He had counted on them, earlier, as a welcome resource for the war; men with enough wealth to keep well-trained soldiers and supplies at the ready. The Farmlands had long been the most prosperous region of Archenland after Anvard itself, and the three Lords that commanded it were loyal allies to the King. But Shar himself was originally from the Farmlands; and Archard and Gerbold were rumored to be related to the line of Narnian kings… an association which now bore down on Cor’s mind with heavy concern.

In the midst of it all was Corin, standing with uncharacteristic stiffness, his eyes firmly fixed on some nonexistent point. He was dressed appropriately for the occasion, his shoulders broad as he crossed his arms in front of him – but Cor knew that his twin’s knuckles were probably bruised and scraped beyond recognition, and that closer inspection might reveal some hastily patched-up cuts around Corin’s eye.

Some of the men glanced up and noticed Cor, quickly bringing their conversations to an end; but if Corin noticed him, he made no move to acknowledge his brother.

It was just as well.

As Cor joined the main party, the doors at the end of the hall opened and Peridan entered, followed closely by a Centaur and a Minotaur, both looking incredibly out of place between stone walls, their hooves clacking oddly against the stone floors.

Most of the Lords were accustomed to seeing Narnians, as travel between Narnia and Archenland had been quite free over the past years, but nevertheless some of the Lords from further West started, growing pale at the sight of them.

“I thank you, my Lords, for joining us—and thank our Narnian brethren and the King,” Cor said firmly, nodding towards them. “It is under grievous circumstances that we meet, and I greatly rue that my father is not with us on this day, to bring some comfort to our heavy hearts. But as it stands, I bear the mantle he once wore with his characteristic grace and courage, and I shall endeavor to live up to such a responsibility, in whatever way I may.”

A few of the Lords bowed. Many had expressions heavy with grief.

“As it is, we count two thousand eight hundred men in Archenland’s force—three hundred cavalry, two hundred archers, and the rest foot soldiers.” He turned to Dar.

Dar nodded, but his mouth was a firm line under his moustache. “Many are trained, but we have a mass of men that are but boys, yet inexperienced on the field of battle.”

“I wish to keep this number far from the frontlines,” Cor said firmly.

“We may do so, Sire,” Darrin said, sighing. “But sooner or later, all men must fight.”

There was a grave silence around the table.

“Narnia is providing three thousand,” a Centaur said, its deep voice resonating over the others. “Therefore our numbers are improved.”

Lord Kairn’s mouth was a firm, grim line. “Improved, but yet too small. Calormen’s cavalry and chariots are famed for their efficiency—for each horse you must count fifty men on foot. Their horses are trained and hardied in battle.”

Kairn was, after all, Lord of many of the villages that had been hit the hardest during Rabadash’s invasion. And he was also something of a hero from wars past; therefore his remarks did hold some weight.

Cor inclined his head slightly in agreement. “That may be so, but we have the advantage of location.”

“And it may serve you,” Peridan added mildly. “To have many Narnians that are _not_ men among you.”

Lord Archard peered at the map on the table, his fair, grey-streaked eyebrows drawn together. “Would it not be best to meet them farther down the Arrow?”

Dar shook his head. “Nay, here the pass is narrow enough to lend us an advantage.” 

Archard kept his gaze on the map for a few seconds longer, but then leaned back with a nod of agreement, crossing his arms. A few of the other Lords shuffled closer to the table, eyeing the pass themselves.

The Narnians were glancing at each other. Peridan moved his hand slightly as if to grant permission, and the Minotaur cleared its throat.

“We have news, from Tashbaan.”

Its voice was deep and gravelly and decidedly inhuman, and the sound made all heads turn. Only Lord Luiden smiled slightly at the discomfort of the others—the mining cities he oversaw shared the mountain range with Narnia, and came in contact with Narnians so often that very little could yet surprise him.

The Minotaur seemed unfazed by their reactions. “A Talking Bird was dispatched shortly after we heard of the new Tisroc’s coronation,” it said, its voice a low rumble. “It returned today. Tashbaan is in great upheaval. Their new Tisroc is deemed a usurper, and the streets are alight with whispers. It seems that Rabadash’s own wives conspired for his downfall, and all manner of wild tales surround the intrigue.” A low exhalation, almost of amusement, escaped it. “They also fear the _devilry_ of the North. This is something that we might use.”

There were perplexed looks on everyone’s faces. Cor sighed. His memories of Tashbaan—but they were not memories, they were _dreams_ , he reminded himself—were clear as if they had taken place the day before, but he had not seen much upheaval; only the natural chaos of the city streets.

The dreams, then, were certainly not of recent times.

He pulled himself out of his thoughts and focused on the Narnians. “Do we know nothing of the Tisroc himself?”

“Unfortunately, Your Majesty, ever since the unlucky meeting between Rabadash and our own Queen Susan, the Calormenes have become quite adept at spotting Talking Beasts, and are under orders to shoot on sight should a creature perch itself much too close to the Palace. Therefore, all truths must be extracted from the gossip of the common peoples.” The Minotaur looked around the room, the black circles of its eyes cautionary. “But it is confirmed that an army of nigh ten thousand has assembled in Tashbaan; the Tisroc has pulled together all his soldiers from elsewhere in the Empire, and focused them upon the single task of overthrowing the North. Hence it was mustered with haste—many come from being posted at other battles.”

The lines of Lord Kairn’s face hardened with worry. “Then they ride already energized by past victories.”

“Or exhausted by past battles,” said Lord Luiden, with a tentative optimism that fooled no one.

“The Calormenes do not grow weary of battle, my friend,” Kairn said wryly. “They are energized by bloodshed.”

“They are _human_ ,” Cor said firmly. “Just as you or I. Therefore they are not undefeatable.”

.

Once the meeting was adjourned, Peridan pressed a hand to Cor’s shoulder in well-meaning encouragement before departing with his entourage, leaving Cor alone in the hall.

Although the pressure of all the attention on him was gone, he could yet feel it on his shoulders. Corin had left before he had even thought to look for him, but Cor would have let him go even if he had.

There had been little dispute over strategy, for once; perhaps the grimness of the situation had finally forced the Lords to overcome their egoism and focus on the matter at hand rather than their own interests.

He let out a breath and looked up at the high ceiling, the carvings on the wooden beams showing the dances of wild horses and King Col in their midst, his sword blazing with fire. He reached down without looking and pressed his hand to the cold hilt of his own sword, its touch now so familiar that it may as well be another limb.

If the Lion was still with them, perhaps his sword could burn yet one more time, to save the kingdom. _Northern devilry_ , the spies had said. Only Aslan could yet avail them.

He left the hall as quietly as if he were a servant, having dismissed his guards. He disliked being followed, and either way the numbers were drawn short after his orders to Dar. It was not Cor, after all, who was in immediate danger.

The open corridors seemed cold and quiet, the hustle and rush of war preparations confined to the outer areas of the castle, and for a moment Cor paused to relish in the silence. At his left, the thin trees in the courtyard shivered in a low breeze, the flowers below them wilted. No one had had time to care for them as of late.

If he looked away from the flowers, however, it was almost as if it were any other moment, in times of peace. Almost as if he were yet Prince Cor, the child.

Almost as if he were _Shasta_.

The silence, however, was soon broken by murmurs.

Glancing around, Cor caught sight of the speaker in the ragged shade of one of the trees. Veiled by the shadows of the corridor as he was, he was likely unnoticeable by the two men who stood in the courtyard, their backs mostly turned to him.

“Too small a number, three thousand,” Lord Hawken said. “You know just as well as I do that Peridan could have provided us five thousand at the very least.”

Archard let out a breath that sounded like resentment. “The other two thousand he has stationed at the Cair, no doubt.”

“Aye,” his companion replied. “In hope that Archenland’s bodies can cushion the blow.”

…

Aravis awoke before dawn, just as the sky was beginning to turn light blue, but the sun was still out of sight. The cold air of the night was chilling, and she pulled a blanket around her shoulders as she stood by the window, looking over the city.

She could see the ledge where the assassin must have waited before entering through that very window. There were now guards watching from above; a thought that brought her little comfort.

It was strange to think that she had killed someone only a few days before. She did not feel as if the action had been hers. It had not quite sunk in, in the way people spoke of being affected by their first kill. She had always supposed that it would be quite a dramatically scarring experience, to take the life of another. And yet now she stood nonchalantly in her room, and had hardly spared the dead man another thought. All her feelings had been directed towards those who had employed him.

Perhaps she had always considered Rabadash her first kill, even when she had not dealt the killing blow.

She dug her hands into the soft blanket to warm her fingers. Her nose was cold against the chilled wind, but the slight pain of it was refreshing—a pleasant distraction from the weight of unease which had become her constant companion.

The dreams had not stopped; they had only grown more vivid each consecutive night. Her dream of the lion tearing her back open had not repeated, but in the world she inhabited while she slept, she could feel the scarring, could feel herself being tended to, was aware of the searing agony of her wounds. There were still moments when she caught herself gasping at the phantom pain.

And more than ever, her mind returned to the golden-haired boy, and his eyes as he had turned back on the horse to save her.

The Aravis in the dream felt like herself. Or perhaps she was not Aravis, but rather another, younger girl, who was now taking refuge in the mountains of Archenland with a Hermit and Talking Horses. But if that was the case, then what was the nature of the bond between them? Still, in the dream, she had found herself asking the same question over and over… _where is Shasta?_

The dream interpreter had been firm about the dreams having meaning, although she had never inquired beyond the one involving Rabadash. Yet there was something inherently horrid in the idea of the dreams being memories of things that had never happened; or as Halim had said, things that the gods had _meant_ to happen, but which had not.

The concept shook her.

Because as much as she had suffered in the dreams, running from home and across the searing desert, being wounded by lions and feeling unspeakable fear, she still found it infinitely appealing. She longed for those sensations—to feel them on her own skin, in her _real_ life. To have escaped from Calavar wearing her brother’s armor, mounted on her childhood mare; escaping Calormen alongside a golden-haired fisherman’s boy whom she cared for more than either of them expected… it was the sort of life she would have dreamed of as a child.

It was the sort of life she wished her younger self could have been given.

A particularly strong gust of wind blew through the window, and she fell back slightly as particles of sand came with it: Northern wind. It smelled of the desert: dry and empty. Perhaps, she thought, stepping away from the window, the dreams were a warning. It was well-known that the demon of the North was a Lion.

There was something missing—something that she ought to be doing that she was not. Why else would Tash send such punishment?

The sun rose slowly. When the gates finally rang out with trumpets, she saw in the distance a cloud of dust. More troops were arriving. Soon the entire army would be assembled, prepared for the onslaught towards the North.

She wondered what the King of Archenland was thinking. Did he cower in fear? Did he mock her, believing that she could not defeat them? Did he suffer through the same unease she felt?

Taking a deep breath of the morning air, she threw the blanket back onto the bed and reached up to move her hair out of her face, and dismissed all thoughts of the  barbarian King… and of Shasta.

.

She had not received Kidrash Tarkaan upon his arrival he night before. The city had been asleep, and she had retired to her rooms in the pretense of doing the same. But one more night’s peace had done little to quell her nerves, and finally denial was inevitable. As she took her seat upon the dais, smoothing her skirt and watching Marekh fumble with the scrolls in his arms, she swallowed down the bile that rose in her throat.

She had waved away the breakfast that had been offered to her. Her stomach churned uncomfortably, but she doubted it had anything to do with hunger.

The Vizier glanced at her and cleared his throat. She wished, irrationally, that Lasaraleen or Badrih or Ishamiel were here. But there would be no use in that. She straightened in her seat and nodded.

At a sign from Marekh, Chlamash gestured for the doors to be opened, and the assembly from Calavar entered.

She watched the shadows of the group approach—four figures, one smaller than the others. Her heart leapt into her mouth and it took all her strength to look up.

Kidrash Tarkaan had grown old in the years since Aravis had known him. He was no longer plump and raven haired; now he stood thinner, his beard graying, although the jewels on his turban shone with particular brilliance. His mouth was still the firm, set line she remembered, and his eyes still held the same deceptive gentleness—the gentleness that had been in stark contrast to his actions when he had sent her to the Tashbaan.

They all bowed, but only the smaller of the figures fell to his knees. The Tarkaans were allowed to stand, and Kidrash stared up at her in wonder—an expression she had never thought to see on her father’s face.

She swallowed tightly and blinked away the tears that were gathering in her eyes.

“O Tisroc,” the Tarkaan from Mezreel said, upon realizing that neither Aravis nor Kidrash Tarkaan would speak. “Calavar and Mezreel add to your mighty force one thousand and three hundred men, to take the North.”

Kidrash finally seemed to rouse himself, his voice rough as he spoke. “O my Daughter and O the Delight of my Eyes.”

At his words, something snapped within her. She presented the small assembly with a courteous, if empty, smile.

“I thank you for your loyalty. Calavar and Mezreel, as always, are provinces we can count on. Arrangements have been made for your comfort, that you may feel welcome.”

The other Tarkaans bowed once more, but Kidrash had gone ignored, and his eyes were now boring into her. Aravis straightened in her seat, the imagined scars on her back suddenly burning.

“You are dismissed,” she told the Tarkaan from Mezreel and the younger man behind him—presumably his son—and turned to Chlamash. “Leave us.”

They obeyed swiftly: the Guard leaving the vast room behind the Tarkaans, followed by Marekh, who must have guessed her intentions. Her father watched them leave with something akin to bewilderment. It must have been a strange thing to witness: how his daughter now sat upon the highest seat in the Empire.

On the carpeted floor, the small prostrate figure fidgeted slightly, but Aravis did not dare look at it. She could not—she could _not_.

Instead, she looked to her father, who now was the only one standing in the vast hall.

“I will have you know,” she said quietly, though her voice shook slightly despite herself. “That in my eyes you ceased to be of my kin the moment that you gave me away to Rabadash as one would gift a slave to another.”

He stared at her for a long moment, and suddenly she felt as a child again; not even the child from the dreams, but a child much younger, playing in the dust of her father’s courtyard, caught digging up worms.

“Aravis,” Kidrash said quietly, and she thought that perhaps she ought to correct him—she was the Tisroc, after all—but she desired to hear what he had to say more than she desired to overpower him.

Only now did she see how desperately she longed for her father to redeem himself. Only now did she realize that she had missed him: the softness of his embrace, the scent of his pipeweed, his deep voice as he recounted stories. And the pain in her chest was all the more terrible, because she could not possibly submit to the emotion.

“Did I not give you what many a Tarkheena would have killed for? How many maidens battle tooth and nail to have a place within the Tisroc’s palace? To be a mother to the children of the House of Tash?”

“That is because they know _nothing_.”

His brow was furrowed, his voice strident. “By the will of Tash, and through my decision, do you now sit as the Tisroc of this Empire.”

“It was from no action of yours!” she called out, and her voice sounded raw. “Did I not beg you to keep me with you? To spare me the cruel fate of being wed to a vile, volatile man more than thrice my own age? And more so, when the choice turned to one whom we expected to live far longer than the Vizier—one _known_ for demeaning his wives, for his violence?” She shook her head, drawing in a shuddering breath. “I would have rather _died_ than endure what I did in his hands.

“This rank is not yours,” she snapped, fury rising with the acid in her chest. “It is mine, for I sought it and fought for it.”

Her father stared at her for a long moment, but there was no empathy in his eyes. “So you have shed your origins, and stripped me of my acquired rank also? What of Calavar?”

Aravis felt as if Ishamiel were in the room with her, chiding her with his gaze. She could not leave her father to look weak to the other Tarkaans, much less when there was risk of treason. At the very least, she must keep the one thousand and three hundred men Calavar and Mezreel had brought on her side.

She let out a shaking breath.

“Do not be concerned as to Calavar,” she finally said. “It will not be disgraced. You will march at the front of the armies, as is befitting to your rank. It shall be as expected.” She fixed him with a cold gaze. “But desist in your demands of trumpets and heralds. You do not return to the wreck you made of your daughter’s life waving banners in triumph.”

Kidrash Tarkaan said nothing. He did not seem dejected, or angry. Perhaps her words were too much for him to comprehend.

She wondered, suddenly, how much her appearance had changed since the last time he had seen her. Back then she had only been a child. Now she was a woman, and the ruler of a country. How different she must look to him.

She turned her eyes away, and instead looked to the small figure that remained prostrate on the floor. As Kidrash turned to leave the room, sensing his dismissal, it stirred, and Aravis’ breath caught in her throat.

“You may stay,” she said quietly to the figure, and her voice sounded drowned to her, as if spoken underwater. “If you wish.”

Kidrash Tarkaan glanced back for a moment, but made no remark in dissent. Instead, he left the room. The doors closed heavily behind him.

The figure remained on the floor, a dark head of close-cropped curls and a robe of deep green. He was too young to wear a turban. From where she sat, Aravis could see his small hands pressed against the carpet like they had all been taught in their house in Calavar, from the moment they were old enough to walk.

She reached out with one hand. “Rafi,” she breathed, her voice strangled. “Come here.”

The little boy raised his head. He was hardly a little boy any longer—he must be ten by now, and already his thin body had some muscle; it was likely that he was already being trained in swordsmanship and riding, as was customary for young Tarkaans. But his eyes were the same ones she remembered on a small boy… bright, innocent, clever.

Now, they met hers in askance.

“I… where?” he asked.

“Here. Come up here, now, never mind what they told you.”

And she stood up and reached for him with such urgency that he must have sensed it, because he stood up immediately and nearly ran up the steps to the dais, placing his hand in hers.

And the gesture—so pure, so gentle, as if Aravis had not spent the past years ignoring his existence by never writing to him; as if she had been a sister to him, when in truth she had lived as if she had no family; as if he had not been left alone, the last of three children, wondering why his older siblings had abandoned him so—it crushed her.

She broke into tears before him, falling to her knees. And she hated herself for appearing so weak in front of him, for moving the burden of her own shoulders onto his. But she had so needed to see him—she had not realized how desperately she had needed it until now. Nothing had made her feel as much guilt as the fact that she had abandoned Rafi.

But Rafi pulled her close and hugged her, one small hand on the top of her head, as if she was not the Tisroc and the mighty ruler of a nation, but only his sister. And he held her tightly as she cried.

Finally, she forced herself to remain calm, taking deep breaths. Having family here did not mean that this was home. And Rafi was only ten years old, after all—he could not possibly understand why she was in such a state. Although, she realized with another wave of guilt, he had heard the entire exchange with their father.

But he was smiling at her as she pulled away to look at him. He still had a dimple in one cheek. He had always been the happiest child Aravis knew.

“Are you well, Aravis?” he asked.

“Yes,” she answered quickly, reaching up to wipe her eyes. “I’m sorry. I’m—” she sighed.

“It’s all right, you know,” he said, his smile only fading slightly, his eyes wide as he looked into hers. “I’m all right. You’re all right. And now we’re together.”

That was all he said on the matter. Aravis found herself letting out a low laugh, her hands on his smaller ones.

She smiled. “Yes, now we’re together.”

.

The servants followed Aravis as she led Rafi away from the colonnades and towards the upper floors of the Palace, but they kept back, and she dismissed them as soon as they approached her rooms. She may have effectively disowned Kidrash Tarkaan, but now that Rafi was near her, she would not relinquish what sparse moments she could enjoy in his company.

Her little brother seemed fascinated by all he saw. Even their lavish house in Calavar could not compare to the rich mosaics and carvings on every inch of the Tisroc’s chambers, or the gold, bronze and silver ornaments encrusted with precious gems. He seemed particularly fascinated by the tapestries of old Tarkaans riding into war. Aravis could not blame him; had she been a bit younger, and her view of these rooms not as tainted, she too would have seen them as a wonder.

“You will look much more fearful than any of these men,” Rafi said, grinning as he looked from her to the tapestry, presumably where Ardeeb Tisroc charged upon a black stallion, his shadow long upon the fabric and twisting into the shape of a god. “Although you must ride a large horse, or you will look too short when they make paintings of you.”

“I doubt they are all accurate,” Aravis said, sinking down to one of the sofas and rubbing her feet through the carpet. She felt unspeakably wary, but here in Rafi’s company the room seemed brighter than it had in years. It was strange, bringing him here. Had she thought of the option before, she would have dismissed it immediately; to connect Rafi with the horrible things that had taken place in those very rooms was too disturbing a thought—and yet now the past seemed to pale in the bright sunlight and his cheerful smile. “And the Tarkaans do not wish me to ride alongside them. It will be hard to persuade them to make paintings.”

Rafi looked affronted. “But you’re the Tisroc!” he hesitated, then, and added under his breath: “May you live forever.”

She nearly corrected him, but supposed that it was best he say it, lest he leave the title out without intending to while others were listening. “I am,” she replied with a sigh, and then smirked. “So yes, I will need a larger horse. But you have gotten taller—at this rate you would need to ride a pony so as to not intimidate the Tarkaans.”

Rafi made a face, but she could tell that he was pleased at the compliment. He bounded over to her and picked a sweet off from a silver plate near the sofa. “I have been taking lessons with the sword, you know, and I’m rather good,” he told her proudly.  “Although Father always says that you were better.”

Aravis stared at him in shock. “He said that?”

Rafi nodded, unaware of the weight of the fact. “It’s meant as an insult, of course— _even your sister could do better!—_ but he always tells me about how you used to fight. It embarrasses my teachers.” He grinned.

She had to look away at that. Her father had always been disgusted at the sight of her with a sword; _women are made ugly by bloodshed_ ¸ he would often tell her disapprovingly.

“The joke is on him, now,” Rafi continued cheerily, wiping powdered sugar off his mouth. “The only person who fights better than me is the Tisroc.”

.

“As tradition commands, the Tisroc (may she live forever) and her guard will be escorted by the hosts of Tehishbaan and Calavar.”

Marekh Tarkaan’s voice rang out louder than she was accustomed to hearing it, but this was his role, after all: to mediate between her and the rabid Tarkaans.

She now sat on the dais looking down at the Tarkaans from all provinces assembled before her, all possessing the right to stand before the Tisroc. Behind them, a few lay prostrate, but they had no voice in this meeting.

It was Fareez Tarkaan and Khalid Tarkaan who mostly drew her attention, as they stood in close proximity to each other for her liking; a potential allegiance that could be pose a deathly blow to her rule.

Her father was watching her from the furthest end of the group. She avoided his gaze.

Tradition did not necessarily command Calavar’s presence, but Kidrash Tarkaan had been a great supporter of Rabadash and his father, and his relation to Aravis had only cemented their province’s rank. Aravis saw no scowls among the crowd, but she the stiffness with which some men held themselves made the jealousy in the room clear.

It was a relief that some remained who were jealous of rank. Knowing the treachery that Fareez Tarkaan was capable of, Aravis did not envy the soldiers that might have to choose to side with Tehishbaan or the Tisroc.

“They shall be flanked by the chariots of Teebeth and Zalindreh, and followed by Mezreel, Azim Balda and the larger body of men.”

“Chariots do not cross the desert easily, Vizier,” said Azrooh Tarkaan from Teebeth. He was Aya’s father’s brother, and a longtime ally of Corradin. “They require constant repairs. Dunes are not friendly to the wheels.”

“Nonetheless, we will have to be swift,” Marekh replied. His back was a straight line in front of Aravis. Seeing him from behind, and were it not for the large feathers in his turban, she might have thought another person was speaking. “We will stop only once for rest, at sunset. Be sure that supplies and water are carefully rationed.”

Corradin Tarkaan spoke up, looking less weary than he had in their first meeting, having been soothed somewhat by rest and feasting. “Zalindreh has provided ships to carry additional provisions, which shall reach us by way of the river; they have already departed by sea.”

“We ride straight for Anvard, by the fastest route. Do not waste time on villages—we aim for the heart. Once it has been stopped, we may reach for the lesser cities. If Anvard falls, Archenland falls with it.”

The men nodded, and many eyes glinted with enthusiasm at the prospect. Although it was not an appropriate question to explicitly ask at this time, it was clear that many were already estimating what it would take for them to be granted a portion of the barbarian lands.

As subtly as she could, Aravis glanced towards Ishamiel. He was standing near Chlamash, and if he were not dressed in royal armor, he might have been mistaken for another member of the Guard because of the protective angle at which he stood. His gaze met hers for a split second before sliding away once more.

Marekh continued. “Should the battle at Anvard result in stable success, and should we yet have strength in numbers, we will wait only to replenish our supplies before setting out once more. A company shall remain at Anvard to establish our rule in that place, and carry out the rule of law with the barbarians, submitting its people to our Empire. The greater body of the army shall follow the Tisroc (may she live forever) Northwards, to take on the great enemy, Narnia.”

There were nods all around. Aravis dug her nails into the cushions of her seat, hoping that the contrast between their sharpness and its softness might make her slightly more ominous, somehow. The Vizier closed the scroll he had been holding with a quick shuffle.

“The Tisroc (may she live forever) and this servant will hear your inquiries now.”

They had been making inquiries already, but there was protocol behind the Vizier’s words, and so the absurdity of his remark escaped the room. Aravis was more uneasy at the way in which Fareez Tarkaan’s eyes had fixed themselves upon her, with a potent mix of condescension and hunger that made him strikingly resemble some of the men that had frequented her father’s house and made the slave-girls weep.

When he spoke, his voice was a low drawl. “So the Tisroc (may she live forever) _does_ ride with us.”

“That has been stated,” the Vizier said, but his voice seemed weak before the Tarkaan’s.

Fareez grinned, and turned to the Head of Aravis’ Guard. “Ah, Chlamash…” he said with a low laugh of derision. “I hope you sword is sharp.”

A heavy silence fell upon the room, as even the other Tarkaans were struck by Fareez’s impertinence. Marekh remained painfully upright, the feathers on his turban still, but he did not seem to know what to say.

Instead, Aravis stirred from where she sat, uncoiling her feet from beneath her and moving to stand.

“Very well,” she said, ignoring the remark and pressing the fingers of both her hands together as she slowly descended from the dais. “Our plan is set, and our departure is close at hand. These are days to rejoice in the strength of Calormen, and in the swiftness of our vengeance.”

Marekh jumped to one side as she approached him, and fell to his knees, pressing his forehead to the ground as she passed. The longest dyed feather grazed her ankle. Before her, the Tarkaans parted as she made for the large double doors.

“When we next assemble, it shall be for war,” she said, and paused suddenly in front of Fareez, lowering her voice. “Have care that I find no reason to cut your forked tongue from your mouth before then.”

Khalid, only a few footsteps away, was staring at her with barely-veiled hatred.

She left them behind her.

Outside, she glanced beyond the colonnade and saw that dusk was falling. In her quarters, countless maps and scrolls awaited, alongside her sword. But even as she stood between the pillars, guards flanking her on every side, she could feel the tingling on her skin—the sudden intense, nearly overwhelming desire to run.

In her mind’s eye, she could still see the desert with perfect clarity, and beyond, the rolling green of Archenland, and its mountains. Somewhere, there was a lion waiting to break her. Somewhere, also, was Shasta, his blue eyes shining.

She suddenly missed him with such force that she feared her body might give way with the strength of it.

But she had to remain calm. Reaching upwards, she tugged her shawl closer over herself, pulling it over her head to shield her face slightly. The horses. She had sent word to her father before she left; could he possibly have followed through?

She turned to a guard. “Inquire if a mare was brought for me from Calavar, as I requested.”

.

The stables were cool. The evening draft drifted through the open door and windows and the scent of horses hit her. She had not smelled it so clearly since her childhood, and she froze for a moment in the doorway, unaccustomed to its strength, seized by its nostalgia. It was difficult to see, but a guard soon approached, carrying a lantern.

She took it from him, a look silencing any protest he had. “Await here,” she ordered, trying to ignore the pounding of her heart.

She had to take care, walking through the stables, to ensure that her slippers did not sink into dirty puddles or sink in patches of hay. Horse-eyes followed her, and she could hear their breaths all around her. Despite the presence of the guards nearby, she felt suddenly alone among the animals.

It was a surprisingly relaxing feeling.

Her father had indeed followed through. The mare had been brought all the way from Calavar, announced as a gift for the Tisroc—an attempt on her father’s part to make Calavar seem more generous than it really was. Upon her refusal of his familiarity, he had relegated the mare to the Palace stables, where all had forgotten about her until Aravis had inquired.

Tentatively, Aravis reached for the low gate of one of the stalls. Beyond it, she could see the slight figure of a grey mare, with a tail that twitched nervously back and forth. As she made to open the gate, the horse turned and faced her, and between the lamplight and the low blueish light of dusk that filtered in from outside, she could make out the mare’s eyes.

It was indeed the horse she remembered.

In a moment, she had unlatched the gate and entered, her slippers sinking into the hay. She hardly felt it. The mare was looking at her, eyes rather wide in the light.

Aravis reached forward with one hand, lantern lifted in the other, and pressed the tips of her fingers to the mare’s nose.

The mare let out a breath.

Hwin.

She was exactly how Aravis remembered her, from the dreams and the rush of the desert and running, running from a lion, and galloping with water licking at her knees, and most of all… sitting in a clearing in Calavar with a dagger to her chest, and Hwin barring the way of the knife. Hwin _saving_ her.

Hwin. If only they had had more time.

A shuddering breath escaped her and she absentmindedly set the lantern down on the gate, bringing two hands to the mare. Many years had passed, but horses were known to have good memory; upon closer examination, the mare looked more tired than Aravis remembered, but her eyes still had that peculiar look of understanding to them.

In her dreams, those eyes had been accompanied by a voice—the one thing that had distinguished the dream from reality, the one comfort to be found in the false memories. Aravis liked to find refuge in the inevitable: the gods had willed her to be married to Rabadash, and she had defeated them. It had not been mere chance.

But still, in the silence of the stables, surrounded by animals at dusk, and feeling the warm coat of the mare beneath her hands—a texture so reminiscent of her childhood, back when things had seemed much easier, much purer—she couldn’t help but wish, agonizingly, that somehow it had all been real; that she could find, in the mare, the companion she had found in the dream.

Leaning forwards slightly, she pressed her forehead against the horse’s neck, closing her eyes, and trying to subdue the storm of emotions within her. She felt like a small girl again, torn between fighting and fleeing, suddenly utterly alone.

“I wish that you could speak,” she whispered, running a hand through the mare’s mane.

There was absolute silence after her words, and the mare’s very breath seemed to cease its rhythmic beat. And then, from within the animal she leaned against, Aravis heard what was unmistakably a voice.

“But I can.”

…

The people flowed into the city like a steadily rising river, until the rush of their arrival could be heard even from within the castle itself. Carriages pulled by tired-looking horses arrived, filled to the brim with women and children and sacks of supplies that were hoped to last for as long as a siege might. Older boys pushed wheelbarrows with their younger siblings up to the gate, and wrinkled old women hauled heavy bags over their shoulders, herding through droves of children. The rattle of wheels and the clamor of voices slipped even through the thickest walls, and it reminded Cor of the days when King Lune had held tournaments, except devoid of joy and merriment.

Lord Myn was already standing on the steps when Cor went outside, and the two of them exchanged mute glances before Cor descended, making for the citadel gate. The potent smell of horses and sweat was in the air, and even with three guards flanking him, Cor had trouble getting through the closely-packed crowd.

Few people recognized him without a crown or a banner, although many threw curious looks his way as he passed. Hardly any of the arriving peoples had seen him before. In the life of a common farmer living in distant villages, occasions to see royalty up close were few and far apart.

Myn caught up to him a few seconds later, breath wheezing from his aged lungs. “We expect another thousand before nightfall, Sire,” he said, once he had gathered his composure. “They come from as far as Arrowmouth.”

“Further than that, and Telmar is the more advisable option,” Cor replied, grimly watching as a young woman, scarcely of age, pulled a huddle of four children up the stone steps and through the large gate of the citadel. Their clothes were stained with dirt, and the children’s eyes held the wide desperation of hunger.

Lord Myn followed his gaze. “They will be fed soon enough, Sire,” he said in a low voice.

Cor swallowed thickly, and watched the small family disappear into the crowd.

Guards would need to have a heavy presence here; something that they could barely afford, given the numbers required for battle, but that would be necessary to ensure that such a high concentration of people would not harm itself during the coming days… or weeks.

He dispatched Myn to find Tran and discuss if a route could be set up to the docks, if worse came to worse. When the older man was gone, he looked around and found Corin standing by the gate.

He was still dressed in the armor he had worn to the meeting earlier in the day, but his hair and face were disheveled and dusty in a way that implied hard labor rather than fighting. He was bent slightly, an arm around an old woman’s shoulders to keep her upright as she stumbled up the steps, her shoes little more than rags under her mud-stained skirts.

Corin led her through the crowd towards the stables, where the woman might find a place to sit and water to drink before continuing on to the space assigned to those seeking refuge.

It was with a sigh of something almost like relief that Cor stepped forwards onto the steps and followed suit, gesturing to the guards to do the same. This was the Corin he knew, after all. A Corin who might spend his nights boxing illegally in sweaty pubs in the city, but who would use the same scraped hands to help the people when they were in desperate need.

Soon he was focused on the motions of providing support for the stumbling, and directions for the confused; a much more gratifying task than guessing at politics in echoing chambers. A task that felt more natural, somehow.

There was a young boy hauling a sack behind him with the pained concentration of one who no longer has the strength to keep it off the ground. Cor stepped forwards and tried to take it from the boy’s grasp. Clearly the contents were precious to him, from the way he flinched every time the sack scraped against the stone.

Glancing up with bewilderment at the sudden assistance, the boy lost his grip on the sack, and suddenly there was a flapping of wings and a wildly upset squawk, and two very offended chickens emerged, falling among the legs of the startled citizens and attempting to continue their way alone.

After a second of shock, Cor jumped forwards to secure them. The boy, still bewildered at the man in elegant armor that had offered assistance, took a moment longer to fully understand what was happening. By the time he, too, jumped forwards, Cor was already tackling one chicken and trying to get a firm grasp on its kicking legs without causing it harm.

With feathers beating against his face, and the distinct smell of droppings in his arms, he finally straightened, the disgruntled chicken held victoriously in his grip. The boy let out a gasp of relief, weakly reaching for the sack once more—a sack which was moving faintly, Cor now realized; evidently there were more than two chickens in the boy’s possession. But there was no sign of the second escapee.

Feeling more than a little foolish, and thankful for the armor that guarded him from the chicken’s angry pecks, Cor looked over the crowd, trying to somehow locate the second offender.

It was Corin who emerged some seconds later, feathers stuck to his breastplate and a look of absolute confusion on his face, as he held an impressively plump chicken under one arm.

They took one look at each other, and promptly burst into startled laughter.

Corin said nothing to him as they helped the boy stuff the chickens back into the sack, and this time carried it for him with more care into the citadel. The boy was soon given food and water and reunited with his relatives, and the chickens fed some scraps found around the stables, but Cor himself felt more nourished than any food could have made him.

It had been a long time since he had shared a laugh with his brother, or laughed at all, really. He looked up at Corin and saw some of the same feelings in his brother’s eyes. Their momentary mirth had not broken through the sadness, but it was a relief to know that it existed at all.

Wordlessly, Corin reached up and clapped him on the shoulder, expression sober once more. But as they returned to the gates, scrambling to assist the incoming crowds, Cor let out a breath he had not realized he had been holding.


	9. Chapter 9

Aravis fell back in shock, eyes wide. It was good that she had not still been holding the lantern, or she might have caused a fire by dropping it on the hay. The mare was looking at her—and now it was no longer the adorable quirk of an animal, but the gaze of a sentient, thinking being.

Hwin was staring at her, horse-eyes wide.

Shaking, Aravis lifted a hand back to the mare’s haunch, trying to gather her wits. Hwin’s soft coat felt real enough; although her dreams had become so vivid, lately…

But no, this was too strange of a situation for her to imagine. And she _knew_ who she was. The silver band on her arm meant that she was still Tisroc. The straw digging through her slippers meant that she probably should not be in the stables. And the horse…

“You can speak,” she said in little more than a breath, heart pounding. “You really can.”

“Yes.”

The horse’s mouth was moving, much like a human’s would, and the sight of it was so surreal that Aravis had to consciously steady herself.

It was not a human voice, and it was hesitant, as if speaking was a skill that had nearly been forgotten. And there was fear in Hwin’s eyes alongside shock. She, too, knew the risks in speaking aloud in the Tisroc’s stables. Once or twice, Aravis had heard of Talking Beasts being discovered in Calormen among common animals. For farmers and peasants, their appearance signaled a curse that could only be undone by death.

“You look so different now,” Hwin said softly, running her nose over Aravis’ shoulder. Aravis was taller now; the last time she had stood beside Hwin, the mare’s nose had been level with her cheek.

Hwin’s gaze was gentle, but Aravis felt a sudden rush of self-consciousness. Somehow, being judged by the eyes of an animal was more unnerving than by a human’s. Now, her nose brushed against the silver bangle on her arm, and it was somehow a much more painful judgement than anything her father could have said. Aravis felt tears brim in her eyes.

_Perhaps we have strayed, sometime in history, by the acts of one or of a few, a divergence in fates…_

Hwin let out a breath, and tossed her mane slightly. “So it is true, then? You’re the Tisroc now?”

Swallowing, Aravis gave a short nod.

Another sigh, and Hwin turned her head away, and she didn’t need to specify what she spoke of; not when the memories were still so stark in both their minds. “I’m sorry, Aravis. I was not fast enough. I wanted to say something; I had a _plan_ , you know…”

Aravis felt a lump rise in her throat; saw, in her mind’s eye, the moments that had passed differently in the dream than in reality. Felt the blossoming potential of friendship between them—the promise of a distant adventure.

In reality, both of them had lived much longer and terrible lives.

She was so different now; so scarred, so driven by principles she never would have embraced years ago, as a child in that fateful clearing.

“Do not ask forgiveness from me,” she replied in a strangled voice, as she removed her hand from Hwin’s coat. “When it is I who now lead an army to your home country.”

There was silence for what felt like a very long time.

She could not meet Hwin’s eyes. Shaking, she let her toes sink into the straw. “I have been having dreams,” she continued. “Dreams where you and I go to live in Narnia, where the Prince—” she stopped herself. “Dreams where I was told of war.”

Hwin must know why they were all there; it would be impossible to ignore the flurry of war preparations both in Calavar and in the Palace stables. But emotion pushed at Aravis’ chest until she feared she might be sick.

Finally, Hwin replied. “You saw me speak in your dream?”

Aravis stepped forwards, reaching for the place where her saddle would once have rested on the mare, from where she had spoken to Hwin as a little girl. That was all gone now. A Tisroc could not ride a common mare. There would be no more gallops through fields and forests. Her breath strangled her.

“Yes. If I had known that this was real…”

She finally met the mare’s gaze again. There was no condemnation there; only sadness. But Hwin reached forwards and brushed the hair from Aravis’ face.

“Then this is the will of Aslan,” she said.

The word _Aslan_ seemed to hang in the air for a moment, before it disappeared.

.

The matter of armor was one that had taken her by surprise. She had thought of army logistics, but not of those regarding her own person. There was no armor made for her build in the armory, much less one decorated with the splendor of which a Tisroc was deserving.

The armory masters seemed perplexed themselves. It was customary for the Tisroc to wear a helm over a peaked cap, enveloped in a golden turban, to war—and yet Aravis Tisroc wore no turban, for she was a woman; and neither did she wear the cap. Was she to wear a mere helm, as a common soldier? Surely she could not ride with her head bared?

But steel and iron were procured, and the necessary decorating items were somehow found, and within a few days Aravis stood for her fitting of the armor—rather convolutedly, for the Head smith that had carried it out was often the same one to dress the Tisroc, but that had been when the Tisroc had been a man. As it was, he found himself uncomfortably issuing orders to the slave-women that dressed Aravis, eyes averted as if he were witnessing something of the utmost indecency, although Aravis was fully clothed.

“The most exalted Tisroc, may she live forever, will see that it perfectly fits her figure,” he said nervously, and Aravis decided against inquiring as to _how_ exactly they had procured her measurements in a way that would be fitting for armor. “However, if there are any changes to be made, we shall hasten to make corrections.”

“It will do,” Aravis said, as the women went about tightening of all the necessary straps. She stood before the tall mirror that had been brought to the hall for her benefit, gazing at the strange reflection that stood before her.

As a child, she had often imagined herself dressed for war, ready to ride off and defeat Calormen’s enemies. As it was now, however, she merely felt strange and rather helpless, trapped within a cage of steel.

“O Tisroc,” Chlamash Tarkaan was at the door, expression tense. “Khalid Tarkaan is here.”

The fingers of the women about her stilled in their fastenings, but Aravis gave them a look, and they continued. “Allow him in.”

At another glance from her, the smith pressed his forehead to the carpet and then retreated along with his servants and their crates. The slave-women continued.

Khalid had come from training. He was dressed in full armor, turban wrapped around a silver helm, seeming somehow even larger and more imposing than usual as he stood before her, expression sour. When he spoke, his voice was terse, his eyes examining her with derision.

“You summoned me?”

Aravis focused on the fit of the shoulder’s coverings as the slaves stepped back, their work complete. She reached down to tighten one of the belts around her middle, and passed a hand over where her sword would soon hang. “I wished to discuss a subject with you.”

He remained silent. Small and young she may be, but Khalid had certainly never seen a woman dressed in armor before. She could tell that he was taken aback at the sight.

“I will speak plainly,” she continued. “I know that Bilash Tarkaan is likely conspiring to remove me from power and place his infant grandson in my place.” Through the mirror, she saw Khalid’s face remain blank, but she knew that his mind was spinning as he attempted to predict where she was going with the conversation. “I know that neither you nor I wish to see Tehishbaan rise to power. Bilash Tarkaan has always sought to leech control from Tashbaan. He has no love for this family.”

 _This_ family. _Her_ family, perhaps, in the eyes of scholars.

Khalid blanched at that, loath to admit their relation. He swallowed as if he had tasted something vile. “His _grandson_ is the rightful heir.”

She examined the red lining of the metal as it merged with cloth, and stared at him through the mirror. “Bilash would wrench power from the East and remove it to the West. Our very _map_ would change. And,” she added coolly. “He has little concern with that which concerns you.”

He sneered. “Which is?”

“The South.”

She turned to face him, and Khalid let out a low laugh. “Do you presume to understand what motivates me, O _Tisroc_? My battle for the South has been a long one; long-fought, long-lost. Not even my brother was able to settle it on my behalf.”

“Your brother, Khalid, was an idiot.” She let the words hang in the air. “I am not. I know very well of the state of oppression in which the South finds itself—and I know that your interests lie there because of your mother, and your wife. It would benefit you to see it properly assimilated into the Empire.”

“It would. But the Tashkhid are against it, for they have a great love of jewels and little interest in giving anything in return.”

Aravis tilted her head slightly in agreement. “Yes. Such a feat would have to be achieved through masterful prowess; deals would have to be struck with every Tarkaan that has taken residence there, and one Tarkaan would have to be set in place as head of the province, to report to me.”

He laughed outright, now; a tall Tarkaan staring down an unruly girl. “And you believe you could do this?”

“I do,” she said. “And I will make you that Tarkaan.”

The decision was heavy with risk, but it was her only option. With Fareez and his father poised to unite all her enemies against her, Khalid was the only viable choice.

He kept his expression carefully blank, but she could tell that he was reeling from what she had said. He did not trust her. She could not blame him. When he finally spoke, his voice was heavy with skepticism. “I?”

“Yes. You have the knowledge and the skill, as well as the drive to bring the tribes together in peace, and not cause unnecessary bloodshed.”

“And you would fight the Tashkhid on this, and deal with every man that has laid his dirty, greedy fingers upon the South, and persuade them to relinquish their stance?”

“I would.”

Khalid let out a breath that was like a laugh, but too breathless to carry mirth. He looked away, shaking his head. “It cannot be done.”

“Look around you, Khalid. A woman is Tisroc, and we are on the brink of conquering the North. All this I have done. Do you yet believe me incapable?”

They stared at each other for a long moment. His expression was still cold and slightly angry, but she had piqued his interest and held it. Very few people cared to cater to Khalid Tarkaan, who was known for his passion for the South and who had held slightly more loyalty for Rabadash than most. Albeit his hunger for power and posturing before Aravis, she did not believe that he would be likely to attempt to kill her for the throne. No, a deal which would straighten out matters with the South and hand him the lands he so loved without him having to deal with diplomacy was the best offer he could ever hope for.

Khalid let out a low noise—reluctant assent, too proud to be put into words. Then he swallowed, looking away. “You would not give this freely as a gift.”

“It is a gift,” she said serenely. “But all gifts offered may be removed, should there be disagreement between both parties.”

He smiled coldly, crossing his arms before him. “And what is it that you expect?”

“I will have you lead Tashbaan’s army.”

He stared.

She allowed herself the luxury of a small smirk. “Do you not think yourself capable?”

“I am capable,” he said through gritted teeth, eyes clouded with disbelief and confusion, and the bitterness of one who is forced to take a boon from an enemy. “But I did expect my brother, whom you seem to favor so much more highly than any other, to be the one to take that place.”

Aravis shook her head. “I have more use for him elsewhere. Do you accept this posting?”

The one who led Tashbaan and sat at the Tisroc’s side held great power, and Khalid was no fool—he would not dream of rejecting such an opportunity. But he knew that it was more than merely an offer of a high position in the war, as lofty and glorious a seat as it might be. Alongside it came the presumption of his duty to defend the Tisroc, and to align himself with Aravis’ people.

He jerked his head forwards in a nod. “I do.”

She let out a quiet breath. “Then we shall ride together.”

When he looked up again, it was through narrowed eyes. He swallowed tightly, still reeling from the shock of the conversation. Already the very air in the hall seemed to have changed; and while Aravis was far from comfortable, she could already feel the rush of triumph.

“Why me?” he asked, finally, after staring at her for a few seconds longer, as if trying to decipher what she was hiding.

“Because I trust your desire for the South to surpass any other interests,” she said plainly, barely masking a glare. “And I trust that you loathe Bilash Tarkaan and his son Fareez just as much as I do, and would dislike to be the means for their rise to power.”

He weighed her words carefully for a moment before replying, and glanced towards the windows. Outside, the banners of all the Tarkaan Houses would be fluttering over the walls.

“That cannot be said for all,” he said, rather quietly.

“No, it cannot.”

He shifted, as if trying to dislodge the strange mood that had settled in the room. A small sneer played at his lips, but he kept his tone measured. “Will you now parade me about as your dog on a tight leash?”

Aravis smiled thinly. _A well-trained dog needs no leash_. “I will parade you as my captain,” she said quietly. “And as my kin, if you are to prove yourself worthy.”

He said nothing.

“And of course, I will expect Ishaq to remove himself from public eyes and bring no disgrace upon the current order of affairs,” she said mildly. “I expect him to know that if he sets foot in this Palace again with any intention beyond submitting himself to my rule, then his throat will be slit.”

The threat seemed closer to what Khalid had been expecting, and seemed to bring him some comfort in his unsure footing. He fixed her with another stare, as if trying to understand her, and then recognizing the finality of her tone, bowed.

“To hear is to obey.”

The slightly sardonic tone to his voice was not lost on her, but it did not quite manage to mask a tone of surprised deference, and so she let it pass. He left her presence.

Khalid Tarkaan was hers, then—at least, for the time being. She had loathed him for many years, and the idea of calmly discussing plans with him was unsettling, but it was a necessary sacrifice. Out of all of the Palace Tarkaans besides Ishamiel, he was both the most capable and the easiest to manipulate, because his anger was so predictable.

She let out a breath, and reached for the fastenings of her armor with trembling fingers, even as the slaves stepped forwards to assist. “Get this off me.”

…

_The banquet that was spread out over the table was so rich that he did not know where to look first. He had never experienced such an abundance of colors and smells. At his side, Corin grinned at him and generously filled his plate with dish after dish, gleeful at the opportunity to show him something new. But the room was loud, and although his stomach churned with hunger, it all seemed so surreal that he felt he must pinch himself to be convinced that it was truly happening._

_He looked up and met her eyes. Aravis was dressed differently now; her frock after the manner of the ladies of Archenland. The noise in the room seemed to subside slightly, and he stood up straighter._

_Aravis smiled at him._

_._

The breeze made its way through the tent flaps and rustled Cor’s hair, and he sat up. Around him, through the white canvas, he could hear the commotion of people: crates being dropped, metal being pounded, boots crunching against gravel, and distant hooves galloping to and fro.

The tent he was in had been erected for his personal use during the days to come, although Cor doubted he would be doing much sleeping once matters truly intensified. As it was, this nap had been a mere respite from riding back and forth from Anvard, leading supply wagons and new groups of men that arrived at the citadel. Only Darrin had finally managed to persuade him to take rest, pointedly remarking that the people needed encouragement in difficult times—not to be discouraged by their King’s short temper and the bags under his eyes.

Cor doubted he had slept much more than an hour. And yet, as he sat up from the cot and pulled on his boots, he could still see the image of Aravis sitting before him, looking into his eyes.

He was torn between feeling frustrated at himself for dreaming when his mind ought to be resting, and being profoundly thankful for the moments in which he was blind to the reality of the waking world.

“It’s not real,” he muttered aloud, as if it might convince him of the fact when nothing else would. He rubbed his eyes.

In the dream he had been younger, but neither as a child nor as the man he was now, had a girl had smiled at him in such a way.

He had been the Crown Prince, of course—and as such hundreds of girls and their parents had gone to great lengths to receive his attention. He was now at an age of marriage; or he would have been, had circumstances not drawn attention far from such mundane matters. But with none of the girls and women he had met in his lifetime had he ever shared such a look: pure understanding that transcended words… the sort of connection that could bring peace, even in chaos.

Channeling Corin, he slapped himself lightly on the cheek. What use were such thoughts? Did he not have much graver matters to attend to? His mind worked in strange ways to attempt to distract him from the dread that awaited.

It was strange, to miss someone so terribly when one had never met them.

After he had pulled on his heavy outerwear, he pushed the flap of the tent open and stepped outside, nodding to the guards that flanked the entrance. His Guard was considerably smaller now that Dar had redirected half of them to focus on Peridan, but Cor did not feel any regret over the decision.

Already, he had seen resentful looks thrown at the Narnian section of the encampment — specifically towards the large crimson tent that had been erected for the Narnian King. That, coupled with the conversation between Hawken and Archard that he had overheard, deeply unsettled him. The resentment towards Narnia ran much deeper than he had initially feared.

It would not last long, he hoped; once the threat of Calormen loomed properly, they would hardly be able to spare a thought to envy.

Darrin caught sight of him as he stepped away from his tent and hurried towards him. The sight of him dressed in full armor sent a wave of foreboding over Cor. Darrin had always been more of a scholar than a warrior. Unconsciously, Cor had often thought of Darrin as an older, wiser version of himself—what he might have been like, had he not become King.

It would be sad indeed for the last moments of their lives to be spent carrying out actions that were so vastly different from what they had dedicated themselves to while living.

“Sire,” Darrin said, giving Cor a critical once-over. “That was hardly past an hour.”

“I can’t manage anything longer,” Cor replied numbly. “I have nightmares.” Which was not exactly true, but he was not about to begin to explain the perplexing series of dreams that had been haunting him. “How fare we?”

“The camp should be ready by nightfall, and we have messengers at the crossroads directing men hither,” Darrin replied. “King Peridan requested to meet at sunset to make the final decisions regarding strategy and the supply route.”

“I will be there.”

“There is another matter.” Darrin scowled slightly, as if he disliked the fact that the following subject were even up for discussion. “Some are concerned as to how long supplies may last for everyone. As I understand it, it is expected that we provide food and drink for the Narnians.”

“Of course. They come to _our_ aid—it is only fair.”

“ _Unsurprisingly_ ,” Darrin said stiffly. “This is not to the liking of some of the Lords.”

Cor felt a surge of anger pass through him, but he allowed it to leave him. “Do speak clearly,” he said, turning fully away from the rest of the camp and lowering his voice so that only Darrin might hear him. “There is no use in protecting dignities. If they have misgivings, they should be coming to me.”

“It has not been spoken aloud to any in the Council. But I have heard them.” Darrin swallowed irritably. “Our friends from the Farmlands—Archard, Hawken and Gerbold. Kairn may also be swayed by such thoughts.”

Cor clenched his hands into fists and suppressed the urge to let out an angry exclamation. There was no time for such idle talk; not when the priority was to strengthen the army enough to have a chance against Calormen.

“The Talking Beasts require little more than meat, and that they often procure for. Satyrs and fauns consume nearly half of what a man might, as they supply themselves with what they find in nature, as well. That leaves only a fraction of the Narnians dependent upon our supplies; and I daresay the average Narnian requires much less than our own greedy folk.” He ground his teeth. “Must I explain this aloud to the gossipmongers?”

“Perhaps, but there is no time for it today,” Darrin said with a sigh. “There is yet much to do. I merely wished to inform you, that you may not let your guard down.”

“Oh, it is _strikingly_ high,” Cor said through gritted teeth. He took a breath to calm himself. He could do nothing about the Lords for the moment. “Have you seen Corin?”

Darrin’s mouth was a grim line, but his scowl disappeared. “Yes, Sire, but only briefly. He rode here alongside some of the Centaurs and I lost sight of him mere minutes later.”

Heaving a sigh, Cor nodded. “Very well. I will try to find him, and then join you. I expect there will be some Lord or other to address.”

With a short bow, Darrin left him.

In the end, he did not have to find Corin; Corin found him, as he stood where the peaks of the cliffs drew the highest, and made one seem smaller than anything else by comparison. As Cor gazed upwards, and then lowered his gaze to the distant, sandy horizon, he heard footsteps, and saw his twin emerge from the thin tree line.

 “So, we’re here,” Corin said darkly, joining his side and looking Southwards, towards where Tashbaan lay after a sea of sand. “It seems much too horrible for a nightmare.”

Cor sighed, but had nothing to say in reply.

“Look,” Corin said presently. “I’m sorry. For—for lashing out, like I did. It was just… too much.”

“It’s too much for all of us,” Cor said quietly.

Chastised, Corin nodded, running a hand through his hair. “I know. I’m… you know I’m not like you, or Father. I’ve always been awful at… _diplomacy_ , I suppose. But I don’t regret it,” he added quickly. “I don’t regret speaking up in front of the Council; they deserved it, and they needed to hear it. Maybe you can’t risk arguing with them because of being King, but I can, and I know I spoke for both of us.”

Cor sighed. “It doesn’t really matter now.”

“No,” Corin agreed. “It doesn’t. But I’m sorry. I know you needed me, and I wasn’t there.”

Cor suddenly found himself unable to speak.

“I can’t promise that I won’t snap at the Council again if they try to propose something ridiculous. But I’ll join the meetings and do what’s required of me. I want to see Calormen burn.”

“Let’s hope we have a chance to even see Calormen at all, and not just their swords as they fall upon us,” Cor said grimly. Then he took a deep breath. “Corin. There’s something I need to ask you.”

Corin looked at him expectantly.

“Regardless of what we tell the people, you and I both know that this is a desperate move on our part. Even with all the men we hope for, we will hardly be a force large enough to be able to hold back the ten thousand Calormen is bringing.”

His brother’s expression darkened, and he looked again towards the desert, arms crossed on his chest. He said nothing.

“It’s not to lose hope…” Cor took a deep breath. “But as King, I need to ensure that in the event of our loss here, there will be someone strong enough to hold Anvard.”

Corin’s head whipped around and he stared at Cor in horror. “What?”

“I’m not going to retreat.”

“ _None_ of us are.”

“Some of us _have_ _to,_ ” Cor said sharply. “We have hundreds of women and children in Anvard, and the force we left there alone cannot hope to hold against Calormen. There will come a point when we will have to decide to retreat.” He took a breath. “And I don’t expect I’ll still be on my feet when that time comes.”

There was a moment of silence.

“You can’t ask me to do that.” Corin turned away, arms tightening, almost as if he was trying to hold himself together. “Peridan—”

“Peridan is King of Narnia; what he decides to do will be his choice, but for the sake of his country it is likely best for him to retreat to the Pass and call his remaining force there, where they could hold against Calormen. But we have a responsibility to Anvard, and you are the Prince, and therefore… the heir.”

Corin seemed unable to speak for a moment, swallowing repeatedly. Finally, he looked up at Cor. “I’ve never been fit to be king. I can fight—I can’t rule.”

“Father’s legacy must be protected. _Our_ legacy. The Council alone cannot, and should not, rule Archenland, no matter how short a time she has remaining. It has to be you. And the prospect of condemning you to retreat while many are yet fighting is one I would not wish upon my worst enemy, and for that I’m sorry,” Cor took a deep breath. “But it’s our duty. I cannot ride to war without knowing that the people will have someone to go to. I need to you to make that sacrifice.”

Corin’s eyes were gleaming with tears as he looked around them. The wind howled against the peaks of the cliffs. He kicked some of the rubble under his boot, jaw clenched. Then, finally, he nodded.

“I’m more than prepared to die on the field of battle,” he said quietly, his voice trembling.

“I know,” Cor said. “I’m sorry.”

…

Aravis woke with Shasta’s eyes, as they stared at her from across the banquet table, still vividly burnt into her mind. It was only the presence of another stare in her bedroom that swiftly removed her from the dream.

Rafi was sitting at her side, eyes wide. When she stared at him in shock, he looked guilty.

“The slaves let me in,” he whispered, as if he feared waking her up more than she already was. “I thought…” he trailed off.

Aravis gathered the sheets to herself and sat up, shivering, not out of fear, exactly… it was something much stranger. She pushed the thoughts away and forced herself to smile ruefully at Rafi. “You still wake up ridiculously early, I see.”

He raised his chin, affronted. “The sun has been up for an hour already.”

She glanced towards the window and sighed. For once, she had slept a healthy amount of hours, and yet it already felt as if she had lost half the day.

“I wish I could go to war with you,” Rafi called out as he immersed himself in a game of chess in her sitting room, banished as she dressed. The slaves would soon look around the doorway to attempt to come to her aid, but she had no interest in being surrounded by people again so soon.

“No, you don’t,” Aravis said, rather more forcefully than she wished.

“All the men from Calavar get to go. _You_ get to go.”

“That is because _I_ issued the order,” Aravis said, pulling the silver bangle up her arm and adjusting her shawl before emerging to where Rafi was pitting pawns against each other. “You’ve no business going to war until you’re a Tarkaan.”

“That’s only five years from now, and anyway I will be riding alongside Father in less than that, for training.”

Aravis stared at his thin frame as he played with the pieces. He was still a child; there was the same roundness to his cheeks that she remembered in him as a toddler, and his eyes had yet to gain the harshness she saw in young Tarkaans as they trained for war.

How much longer would his naivety last? Tradition was tradition, after all, and for all Rafi’s sweetness, there was no promise that he would be able to keep his cheerful, pure disposition as he became more and more immersed in the Calormene culture of battle.

A country of war was doomed to raise soldiers.

Surprised at her own thoughts, she rose, pressing her palm against her little brother’s hair. “Come; I have matters I must attend to. You can take the board with you, though, if you like.”

As she had expected, his disappointment at the news was quite successfully cushioned by his delight at the gift.

.

“Earlier, you confessed your misgivings about my riding Northwards,” Aravis said, keeping to the shade of a column as she stared out into the courtyard. The guards and the slaves stood back, blocking others from drawing near to the area. “I wish to assuage those fears.”

Ishamiel bowed slightly, although she could tell by his stance that his fears were anything but assuaged. In the breezy corridor, in the sight of the courtyard’s bright flowers, they seemed out of place with the grimness of their conversation.

“I have spoken to Khalid Tarkaan, and the matter is somewhat resolved, now. We have reached an agreement.”

Ishamiel shot her a wary look. “Khalid is not trustworthy. He will jump at any chance to overthrow you.”

“Perhaps, were he to get nothing out of me as Tisroc,” she replied. “But for the moment, at least, he has some incentive to support me. His desire to annex the South is in direct contradiction to Bilash and Fareez’s plans.”

“And so, you have set them against each other.” Ishamiel sighed and looked away, arms crossed in front of him. A bird chirped melodiously from a roof nearby; sickly sweet and idealistic. “But Tarkaans are not so simple to subdue. The one thing all Houses across all provinces have in common at all times, is their shared hatred for the Tisroc, and their coveting of that power.”

“For now, what concerns me is protecting myself during the battle and having at least one ally there,” Aravis retorted. “My father is tentative at best; he enjoys his privileges now, but I know I have disappointed him.” Ishamiel shot her another, more disapproving look. “But he will stand by me during the war, at the very least to get a share of the glory. If Khalid can do the same, I will have secured two of the largest battalions—enough to diminish some of Fareez’s confidence.”

Ishamiel’s dark eyes flew up to her, suddenly concerned anew. “Khalid will lead the Tashbaan battalion?”

“He will.”

She knew Ishamiel was too dignified to admit that he had expected to receive the position of captain—indeed, they had all expected him to do so, and Aravis had at one time even begun to make the arrangements, for it was only natural—but she could see that he was taken aback.

“I have not relegated you to some lower station,” she told him, allowing herself a small smile of wry amusement. “If that is what you are thinking. Rather, I have another, more pressing matter to assign to you.”

He looked perplexed. “More pressing than the war?”

“Yes.” She turned fully towards him, meeting his eyes. “I will make you my steward—and in the event that the worse comes to pass… my heir.”

For a moment, Ishamiel did not react, his normally guarded expression returning to its mask of serene alertness. But Aravis saw his body tense, and when he opened his mouth to reply, somehow it seemed that he had nothing to say at all.

Ishamiel suddenly fell to his knees, and to her surprise, bowed low and pressed his forehead to the ground. “Pray remove this responsibility from me, O Tisroc,” he said hoarsely. “I have never desired to wield this power, nor am I suited for it.”

“There is no one more qualified than you,” she said. “And I know that I can trust you to face the Tarkaans, should I not return from battle. You will keep my allies safe… and perhaps even execute some of the changes you so dearly desire.”

He shook his head, which was still bowed down at her feet. “I have never had such aspirations. I cannot.”

“But you must,” she said sharply. “You supported my claim to rule when no other would have, because you had hope that we could someday achieve something great; a foresight that I myself, it pains me to admit, did not share at the time. Now, even as I glimpse a more hopeful future, it seems that enemies have cornered me and I am forced to do what is best to save this country—an external war, rather than an internal one. Who else could I have remain in my place?”

His voice sounded muffled at her feet, and had it not seemed so implausible to her, it might have been so from emotion. “It was my hope to ride to the North at your side, and watch you achieve glorious victory.”

“And you shall witness my return, if Tash wills it. But in the event that things do not go as hope… the Palace cannot be empty. The Empire must go on. And it _cannot_ be left in the hands of Ishaq, Khalid _or_ Bilash. You know as well as I do that such transitions would plunge this country into chaos.”

He looked up at her then, his face stern and tense. He seemed older somehow, more worn by the tension of the last few weeks. Perhaps he ought to have been Tisroc, rather than her; although he was never one for leadership or the flair that it required, he was a calm and measured man with indispensable skills—a rarity among the Prices of the royal family, who so often were born mad and depraved.

“I cannot trust that my brother will protect you.”

He hardly ever referred to Khalid as such, just as he had hardly ever referred to Rabadash as his brother.

“I must trust that he will. It is only through this trust that he, in turn, will put his trust in me.” She sighed. “And the gods have favored me so far; they will not forsake me now.”

And indeed, the gods had. She pushed away the thoughts of Hwin and the vivid dreams that now seemed to have become an indispensable part of her. “Please, Ishamiel,” she said to him, almost gently.

He closed his eyes, drawing in a deep breath. “To hear is to obey.”

.

She pressed a kiss to Rafi’s forehead while he was yet half asleep, having wandered into her sitting room early in the morning and fallen asleep on a couch, and then pried his arms away her neck. He would likely awake properly soon and rush to see them off, but Aravis could not muster the strength to exchange words. This was how she wanted her little brother to remember her.

Badrih and Aya had little to say. Pleased at the evidence of their work among the healers, Aravis embraced them both, but could offer neither comfort nor promise.

All her allies were to remain in Tashbaan, while she rode out into the desert with only Khalid Tarkaan at her side.

“I cannot take you with me,” she had told Hwin late the night before, nestled in the hay as if she were a child again.

Hwin had nuzzled her hair, but said nothing more. The weight of two kingdoms hung between them.

.

The armies had assembled just outside the city walls, throughout the day—thousands of horses trampling the damp sand into submission, and thousands of men attaching chariots and boxes and saddles, or carrying out last-minute practice with the newest soldiers. All provinces had already arrived; there was a buzz in the air that transcended the heat of the day. The thirst for war drove them; the same primitive pull that one day, hundreds of years ago, had established Calormen in the South and drawn together its people.

Aravis had not ridden on horseback through Tashbaan ever before. As a Tarkheena, she had been relegated to litters, and even more so when she was Khasik. Now, she was to ride for two days, without counting the war she would have to face on horseback.

It had been years since she had sat astride a horse. She knew with unease that she would have to pretend for the entirety of the journey that she was not in pain from riding more than her body was accustomed to.

She felt much too tall, balanced upon the saddle. Somehow, two years had made the distance between the saddle and the ground thrice as great. But they had also given her a different horse; a tall stallion that she would never have dared to ride before. Like Rafi, Ishamiel had suggested that it might make her seem taller, and give her a more imposing build. Otherwise the Tarkaans might tower above their Tisroc. She had quickly agreed.

Out of the women, Lasaraleen was the last to see her. She reached up and took Aravis’ hand in hers, in what little privacy they had near the Tisroc’s private stables.

“Do you know what happened to Ilsombreh Tisroc’s older brother’s allies once he was overthrown?” she said in a whisper, her reddened eyes burning, though her hand was gentle. “His wives were strung up by their feet and dragged across the streets. His advisors were consecutively beheaded in front of their children, who in turn were thrown out to be sold as slaves.”

Aravis drew in a shaking breath. “That was _then_.”

“This is now,” Lasaraleen murmured. Her fingers felt icy against Aravis’, which were burning against the reins. “Please be careful.”

Aravis was trembling. She could feel it. She only hoped it could not be noticed.

Lasaraleen tightened her fingers against hers. She stilled Aravis’ shaking hand. “I will pray for your safe return.”

Aravis could not reply. She merely held Lasaraleen’s gaze until the grooms stepped forward and took her horse by the bridle, leading it forwards.

The city was scalding hot still, as the sun was only beginning its descent. Chlamash Tarkaan kept close, only riding slightly behind her, so that he could speak in an undertone to the guards behind him. “By the time we depart, evening will set in. It shall become more tolerable then.”

Somehow, the streets now seemed narrower than they had when she had been on a litter. She feared, at times, that her head might graze the low-hanging balconies and vines, but she forced her back to remain straight. The golden veil they had draped around the helm at her head shielded her somewhat from view, but when a breeze drifted past, her face was well exposed. She had ensured that they would not dress her as if she were still a wife, but she was now thankful for the extra cover: not only did it cover her from the scalding sun, but it also provided her with some shelter from the eager eyes of the people.

It was a majestic procession, the sort that had been repeated for hundreds of years by Tisroc after Tisroc: a march to the outskirts of the city, a demonstration of the power of Calormen. The banner of Tash was lifted above all their heads, and heralds cried out _Make way, make way for the Tisroc, the exalted, the incomparable!_

The people had not seen her; not since she had stood at the altar of the temple of Tash and declared her intention to rule. Now, she must appear confident, mighty, even mildly threatening. This was her moment to contest the whispers that had run throughout the city: talk of a Usurper, of the weakness of a woman in power.

She would not sweat, she would not flinch, she would not make a sound. She would appear untouchable.

A low wind lifted itself and swept through the procession, and the people in the streets cheered as they passed through, waving their arms in the air, until she was level with them and they were forced to bow low, as their low station demanded. Chlamash’s face, partly hidden under the shadow of his helm and turban, was drawn tightly, his eyes darting back and forth. Aravis had a sudden mental image of a person shooting arrows down from the balcony and killing her on the spot. She pushed the thought away—if she were to die, then at the very least it ought to be in a dignified manner.

After all, the greater enemies yet awaited among her own army.

Although she tried her best to keep her eyes averted from the crowd, not wishing to stir up a reaction, or worse, have them see her own emotions, she could not help herself entirely. Her eyes were drawn, again and again, to the smaller girls in the crowd, rich and poor alike, either kneeling in the dusty streets or gazing out of exquisitely curtained windows—small girls, with fierce little faces that reminded her of herself at that age, whose expressions turned to awe and admiration as she passed through.

She wondered what might have become of her if she had seen a Tisroc that was also a woman as a child; how that might have changed things. How it might have changed things for all of them. How it might have changed her father’s mind.

They crossed the city without incident, although by the time they reached the gates Aravis could already feel the sting of her legs and arms, and the overbearing weight of the armor on her body. A loud call went up from the trumpets, and banners flapped loudly in the wind. Outside the gates, the vast mass of soldiers awaited, the banners of each Tarkaan House fluttering above: the gods depicted wielding their powers of war.

Aravis rode forward, hands gripping the reins tightly, willing her expression to remain blank. Now she _must_ make eye contact with the soldiers; differently than with the people of the city, she required the soldiers to feel themselves directly accountable to her. She especially allowed her eyes to rest on those dressed in the blue-trimmed armor—men of Tehishbaan, whose orders would come from Fareez Tarkaan himself.

The men were all older than her, although she glimpsed a few boys, mostly relegated to duties as pages or flagbearers. She wondered if the men knew her age; if being any older would have made much of a difference.

The first person she recognized was Khalid, attired in shining silver armor, his expression contrite, as if he had only just gotten out of an argument. It was not surprising; the Tashkhid were close behind him, their white tunics bright lights under the sun. They seemed torn as to what emotions to display to her; some of them had resentful scowls on their faces, whilst others could not help a slight smile of excitement. The Tashkhid thrived in the knowledge that the demons of the North were soon to be defeated.

She rode on, and they closed in behind her. Fareez held his reins high in one hand, an eyebrow raised as if in perpetual askance, although he allowed a short bow of his head as she approached. The Tarkaans of Zalindreh, Teebeth, Mezreel and various other provinces gathered round. Her father was gazing at her, eyes shining, although if it was with positive or negative emotion, Aravis could not tell.

Finally, she saw Ishamiel, no longer dressed in his armor. Instead, he wore a shining green tunic, a large turban on his head. His expression was so tense as he looked at her that Aravis felt as if she had doomed him to a death sentence.

Guram Tashkhad finally approached, seeming small as she looked down at him from her high steed.

“O Tisroc, bearer of the name of Tash on this earth, may you live forever!” he called out. The company was deadly silent. Aravis remained sitting straight on the saddle, although sweat was running down the back of her neck, the heat of the sun burning even through the cover of the veil. “Noble indeed were the winds that carried Ardeeb Tisroc into these Southern lands, and by the will of Tash, turned this desert into flourishing paradise. Well did the poets prophesize: _And a river of riches flowed Southwards, to rain upon Tash’s children._ For now we take the barbarian lands and bring them under the command of the gods.”

Aravis had not heard such a prophecy before. As empty as Guram’s words were, with his winded breath and eyes rather glazed by the glaring sun, the words brought her strange comfort. _This is the will of Tash_.

Hwin had said it was the will of Aslan.

She looked down at Guram. “Have I the blessing of Tash, as I lead our people to victory?”

Guram hesitated more than was likely appropriate to give his response, but he would not dare deny it. “The Tisroc is indeed unstoppable, powerful, of infinite might. Tash will extend his blessing, that the Curse of the North be dispelled forever from our lands, and peace and prosperity be assured!”

Cries erupted from the army, celebration and anticipation mingling, and Aravis’ own horse let out a whinny, which was pleasing—at the very least the horse was excited for what was to come. As it was, she herself could feel her stomach roll with nausea. _Do not let them see_.

“In my absence,” she said to the Tashkhid and the Tarkaans that were closest, and her voice came surprisingly steady. “I entrust the wellbeing of this Empire to the hands of my brother-in-law, Ishamiel Tarkaan, in whom abound loyalty and wisdom in great measure. May Tash guide his hand to care for these lands as I would, that upon my return I may find them thriving.”

Ishamiel said nothing, but she had to tear her gaze away from the pain that crossed his features.

She turned to look at the sea of people. Turbaned men, riding astride swift horses with scimitars at their waists; foot soldiers bearing sharp spears with the colors of Calormen tied to them in ribbons; chariots from Teebeth, bearing three men apiece with a multitude of weapons, like a moving fortress; and groups of archers, longbows on their backs. They bowed once, as one.

Gripping the reins, she hastened to the front. Khalid urged his horse into a trot to reach her side, and the Tarkaans scattered towards their respective places. Already, the sun was low on the sky, and although waves of heat still issued from the vast golden landscape of the desert, she could feel the air growing cool around her.

She could remember what the peak of Mount Pire looked like in her dreams, rising up from the sand like a beacon of hope. Now, she rode towards it with an army behind her, to claim victory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very little on Cor this time; sorry! There will be more of him in the next chapter. I kind of want to write a whole separate one-shot on how the smiths managed to make the armor for Aravis, because I feel like it must have been such a fun process of discovery.  
> Also, you have no idea how many deleted scenes I have from writing this chapter.  
> Thanks for reading, and please let me know what you think! Knowing that you're reading keeps me going.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone mentioned that it would be useful to have a character list, so [here it is!](https://nasimwrites.tumblr.com/post/160402814232/the-tisroc-and-the-king-character-list) I hope you find it helpful. (Also, that's my new tumblr, so feel free to follow me!)

_She was older now. He was also older, no longer a fisherman’s son, but a Prince._

_She didn’t call him Shasta anymore, but there was something about the way she looked at him, even in the middle of a quarrel, that sent a rush through him much like the excitement of galloping at full speed Northwards towards a place they knew would become home…_

.

Cor looked down from the flattened rock at the top of the hill they had made their council hall. It was currently lacking said council, little more than the remnants of a campfire and a white canvas tent, as captains occupied themselves in the camp below to clothe and arm every soldier. The valley was loud with the voices of men and the movement of horses, but Cor felt as if he was floating above it all somehow, in a strange, terrifying way that threatened to drop him back to the ground at any second. The nervous tension of war had peaked into a sense of quiet unease.

The flapping of the tent behind him sounded like the carpets hung out to air over the streets of Tashbaan, clapping against the stone walls. He thought he could hear Hwin and Bree approaching… But no, as the sound of galloping hooves became louder, Peridan came into sight and dismounted at the bottom of the hill, pulling his helm off his head. He was sweating, face reddened by the sun.

The last of the Narnian delegation had arrived—a few thousand, scarcely the number Cor had secretly hoped for—and Peridan had ridden out to meet them; a kingly act that Cor suspected was only partly motivated by kindness towards his soldiers: standing in the camp awaiting for word of an approaching army was hardly morale-boosting, and did not help much with the already rampant anxiety of being both King and commander for a war of such magnitude.

Cor glanced back towards the tent. Corin was sitting by the dying embers of the fire he had initially announced his intention to rekindle, a tinderbox in hand and his eyes turned Southwards, as all eyes in the area seemed to be. He looked paler than usual.

Even as Cor looked at him, their gazes met. They had nothing more to say to each other, merely held gazes for a few seconds before Cor turned towards Peridan, who had reached the top of the hill and grasped his hand briefly.

“We are all now assembled,” Peridan said, catching his breath. “And I hear we have word of the army?”

“Ten thousand set out yesterday evening,” Corin spoke up from where he sat. “I almost wish it were all over with already.”

Peridan had a strange look on his face as walked over to the logs by the campfire ashes and sat down. “Queen Lucy told me once that there was nothing glorious about war, unless you were riding on Aslan’s back.”

Corin looked away, reaching up to press his arm to his face.

Cor swallowed. “On Aslan’s back?”

“She said she rode on Aslan’s back when the Witch was defeated. Whether or not it was meant literally, I have always preferred to take it as a symbol.” He set his jaw and stretched his legs, looking down at the blackened grass. “It seems to me that at the moment we are not on Aslan’s back at all.”

In his mind, Cor could still hear the cry of the Lion shattering the air. He could also see Aravis’ eyes, wide and terrified as she rode behind him; could feel himself turn with sudden strength, and slip off the saddle willingly…

“I’ve been having dreams,” he said quietly.

Peridan frowned distractedly. “Pardon?”

Cor shook his head slightly, and let the moment pass. What could he possibly say to assuage everyone’s fears, when he himself could not interpret what he had dreamed? His mind, revolving so strangely around two vastly differing stories—the war against Calormen, and the mysterious fate of two children running across the desert—felt ready to burst.

He could not bring himself to sit down, reduced to pacing aimlessly as Corin finally tackled the tinderbox. Peridan had settled his head in his arms, hunched over to rest. In the distance, Cor heard the distinct whinny of a horse again.

His chest hurt. The burgundy colors of a Narnian tent caught his eye and looked like the hem of Aravis’ dress. The trees cast shadows the shade of Aravis’ hair. He felt simultaneously surrounded and forsaken.

Was he going mad?

Three men slowly making their way up the hill threw shadows onto the grass, and Cor took the distraction as a reprieve from his thoughts. He left Corin and Peridan behind him and sprinted down the slope towards the camp, trying to still his own steps along with his breath. Dar looked up at him, followed by two guards. His expression was tense.

 “Sire, it would be best if King Peridan remained near the Prince,” Dar said quietly, wasting no time on greetings.

The ache in his chest constricted with alarm. “Did something happen?”

“Not yet,” Dar said grimly. “But Hawken and Archard have not been seen with the other captains, and that makes me uneasy. I fear that tensions could rise very quickly if people have time to plot.”

“The alternative is not much better,” Cor said wryly, glancing Southwards. “But I agree. He is with Corin, now. Could you make my brother aware of this?”

Dar and his men bowed and continued up the hill, armor clinking past him.

.

Cor wandered aimlessly, one foot in reality and the other in the dream, treading both with equal confusion. There was a ringing of metal against metal all about him – blacksmiths, soldiers training, the slide of armor against itself. His mind buzzed with memories of another battle; one that had never taken place.

He could see the young figures that occupied the shade of the trees and tents nearby, some little more than boys. They huddled close to each other, speaking loudly, laughing much too loudly—the posturing of children when faced with death.

Cor might be young, but his soldiers were younger.

He couldn’t bring himself to look at them. He wondered about their mothers, left waiting at Anvard, or exiled towards Telmar. There was no outcome in which there would not be pain.

“My dear boy,” said a soft voice at his side, extricating him from his thoughts. “You’re in no state to be walking about.”

Nurse Aida was wiping her hands on her apron, although the splinters clinging to the hem of her skirts were evidence enough that she had been occupied with carving arrows. Under the shadow of the canopy of a nearby tent, they were suddenly isolated from the main flurry of activity.

The old woman was looking at him with concern. He reached up and rubbed his eyes; _this_ was reality. It was here that he was needed.

“I’m all right,” he said, forcing a smile that must have looked more like a grimace. “I suppose I’m just tired.”

“It’s a great weight that you carry on your young shoulders,” Nurse Aida said with a sigh, and gazed at him sadly. “If you were not a King, I would order you to drink soup and get some rest.”

He let out a low laugh. “Thank you. I think it would do us all well.”

She sighed. “As it is, a cup of something warm might have to do.”

Instructing him to sit upon an upturned bucket, like a rebuked child, she disappeared, her plump figure disappearing in the gaps between tents.

Cor sat quietly as she had indicated, trying to keep his mind blank to avoid descending into a state of madness. He barely felt time pass at all before the nurse returned, pressing a cup of something warm into his hands.

“Here; drink.”

It was something like a soup, he realized, sipping the slightly tasteless liquid. But it grounded him in reality, and he gradually grew more embarrassed at how easily he seemed to have grown distracted.

“Pressure does that to the best of us, my dear,” Nurse Aida said gently, perhaps reading his expression. "You need to eat and drink, just like the rest of us.”

“It’s not the food, I don’t think,” Cor said, but dutifully drained his cup. “It’s… I have questions.”

About Calormen, about Archenland, about what might have happened if Lord Bar had succeeded, about Aravis, about the nature of the dreams that plagued him, now even in his waking hours…

Nurse Aida fixed him with a piercing gaze. “Questions are not questions until they are asked.”

He set down the cup between blades of grass by his boot, and swallowed. It _had_ helped. But while his stomach felt considerably warmer and had ceased some of its churning, the pressure in his chest remained. _I don’t think I know what the questions_ are _,_ he wanted to say. How could one possibly begin to explain the story that was unfolding in his mind?

There was some movement nearby, and a cluster of fauns passed by, speaking among themselves in tense yet nonetheless melodious voices. They were followed by two Talking Cats who looked decidedly annoyed.

And there _were_ questions—questions that could be answered. Perhaps not about Aravis, or the strange mission the children had found themselves forced to carry out, but there was still Bree…

He straightened suddenly and stood up, unwittingly knocking over the cup by his foot. Nurse Aida merely looked at him as if she had been expecting such a reaction all along.

.

Cor did not have to walk long: after making his way through the last of the tents at the edge of the narrow river, he soon caught sight of a group of Talking Horses that were busy chewing grass beneath some trees; clearly soldiers far from home, finding comfort in the familiarity of each other. Cor knew that Talking Horses did not go to war unless the King himself rode with the army. Seeing them so casually among themselves made him feel almost ashamed that Archenland’s war had brought them to play the parts of steeds.

The Horses straightened immediately when they saw him, turning away from the tufts of grass and bowing their long necks.

“Your Majesty,” said a grey dappled stallion, sounding surprised. Beside him, a slightly smaller horse rapidly finished chewing his mouthful of grass.

“Friends,” Cor said, feeling rather awkward for having such an odd question at such an important time as this. “I was hoping to find the answer to a question, if I may have a moment of your time.”

The Horses stared at him. It took him a moment to realize that perhaps, culturally, Horses would not egg him on to reply, but would rather wait in silence.

“Yes—well,” he stammered uncomfortably. “Do you know of a Horse named Bree?”

The Horses looked at each other, mumbling things out of earshot, and then turned to him as one and shook their heads. “Forgive me, Your Majesty,” said the first Horse. “But the name simply doesn’t sound very Horselike.”

Cor reached up and rubbed the headache through his forehead, trying desperately to remember. The Horse _had_ been called Bree. But perhaps that was merely an abbreviation? He sighed. “He would have been a mere foal at the time, stolen… probably from the southern slopes of Narnia. Stolen by Calormene bandits.”

This time, the glances the Horses exchanged were of shared understanding.

“There are many foals lost in this manner,” the Horse said gravely. “Much of these kidnappings decreased once the late King Lune put an end to bandit activity near the border. But many of us have lost brothers or sisters to bandits—such is the doom of the Talking Beast; especially the Talking Horse.”

Cor nodded sympathetically, and only then allowed himself to frown. “Then it would be possible?”

The Horses remained silent. Belatedly, Cor realized that they were awaiting for him to be more specific. “Would it have been possible for a Horse to be captured and taken to Calormen, and live there pretending to be a dumb horse?”

The Horses seemed mildly taken aback by his question, and some of them dragged a hoof through the dust, or looked away uncomfortably.

Cor grimaced. “Forgive me; I realize that this is a sensitive topic. I do not wish to awaken dark memories. I merely… I am looking for a specific Horse, and this might have been his story. I would greatly appreciate your assistance.”

Slightly mollified, the first Horse nodded slightly, eyes softening. “That’s quite all right, Your Majesty. Sadly, yes… that may very well be the fate of many Horses. It is our hope that one day Aslan may bring them all back home, to live as they were meant to.”

Cor thanked them and retreated, suddenly finding his heart pounding for reasons completely unrelated to the war at hand. If Bree could have been real… if Cor himself had almost been kidnapped by Lord Bar as an infant… if it were possible that in some version of events he would have lived out his life in Calormen in utmost misery, as a fisherman’s son, rather than knowing that he was the Crown Prince… if there had been a girl named Aravis who was also of a mind to escape…

Cor had to stop to sit against a tree, feeling his hands shaking. The bark was rough against his palms, like the stone of the Tombs outside Tashbaan. Did he wish that things had turned out that way? That he had never known his father, until he was almost entirely grown up? That he had grown without knowing that he even had a twin? That his life had been one of slavery to a cruel man?

No, he did not.

But if such circumstances would have avoided his father’s death… perhaps he would have been of more service to Archenland as an escaped Calormen slave than as the Crown Prince.

A sudden cry roused him from his thoughts. It was followed by the sound of a horn.

Calormen was coming.

Jumping to his feet, he ran towards the hill.

…

The lessons taught by governesses in Kidrash Tarkaan’s home had always touched on the desert, in some way or another. For the inhabitants of lands south of Tashbaan, where the grass grew greener and sand was closely associated to shores of some sort, the desert presented a mystery that could only be explained through the will of Tash. _For it was through his hand, the far-reaching, the unconstrained, that our fathers crossed the wasteland and watched the land of Calormen flourish beneath their feet._

From where exactly they had come was not clear, but the miracle of the crossing was swiftly becoming clearer to Aravis.

The helm was bruising the line of her forehead and the nape of her neck, the veil tangling with loose strands of hair and sticking to her sweat. Infinitely worse, however, was the chafing of her skin against the armor, even through soft fabric, and the impossibly heavy weight of it all over her shoulders, ribs and thighs. To a Tarkaan habituated to wearing such equipment nearly every day of his life, a day’s ride in full armor would hardly leave a mark on the body, but Aravis was painfully aware of the differences between a Tarkaan’s life and the one she had been forced to live.

Beneath her, the huge stallion fidgeted, beads of sweat on its black coat where the grooms had removed the barding, lest the horse overheat. Being a war horse, it was accustomed to riding for long hours—but even so, it seemed to shrink in the sun.

For the first hour after leaving Tashbaan, the army’s progress had seemed swift. The sound of hooves, marching boots and rattling chariot wheels had been nearly deafening upon the hardened soil. But the further into the desert they had gone, Tashbaan sinking into the ground like a long-lost island, the more muffled the sound became against the sand, and as the dunes rose around them, the world had become a stinging, windy, hazy hell that was nowhere—neither in Calormen nor in the North, but in some strange form of mid-ground, where humans had never been meant to tread.

Evening had faded into night and faded into morning, and seemingly mere minutes after their last pause for rest, the sky had exploded with a haze of blinding heat.

Aravis’ hand trembled as Chlamash handed her a waterskin. Parallel to them, she could see the distant banners of Tehishbaan still cutting the wind like sharp daggers, and Fareez Tarkaan’s upright figure. With one hundred men riding between them, his expression was impossible to see. But she could feel him watching her, and it made her skin crawl.

Khalid was nowhere in sight, fallen back at some point in the last few hours. Among the mass of riders and the confusing haze of heat, it was likely to happen—the body of Tashbaan was large—but she felt nervous at his absence. Calavar’s cavalry was still at her back, but who knew what words were being exchanged under the cover of the army’s exhaustion?

She glanced at Chlamash. His hand had moved to his sword hilt from the moment they had set out, and remained there until now.

There was no air in her lungs to muster words, so she remained silent. Her legs ached unbearably, burning as if they had been flogged. She had not ridden on a horse in years. Her armor, thankfully, forced her spine upright—a necessary torture. The Tisroc was strong.

_Do not let them see._

Ahead, only dark shadows promised the line of the Northern mountains; a wavering vision in the heat. She could almost see herself there, walking barefoot over the dunes, Shasta at her side, slow and steady and desperate…

The overwhelming heat had only made the visions stronger. She could see his eyes _everywhere_.

She turned to Chlamash again, desperation rising in her throat.

“We stop now,” she ordered. “Water and rest.”

The order was given, shouted by Chlamash and echoed across the army. Captains reined in their horses and the masses of men came to a halt, spreading out like a strange ocean with a will of its own, the clash and clang of steel ringing in the desert wind as the company dismounted.

She watched Corradin Tarkaan remain on his horse, swiftly turning back towards the direction of Teebeth’s banners, where already a cloud of dust had risen as men set to clear chariot wheels of accumulated sand. Barrels of water were rolled in the opposite direction, towards the cavalry. She would not be surprised if Corradin was meeting with Azrooh Tarkaan, but she felt a stab of alarm as she could not see Fareez anymore.

“Where is Khalid?” she asked under her breath, squinting at the masses as Chlamash dismounted at her side. A small army of guards had already set to laying heavy cloth between tentposts; a temporary refuge from the overpowering sun.

Chlamash did not seem to know. Aravis bit back a curse, and grasped the saddle to dismount.

She had almost forgotten the state of her legs, but when she swung her leg over the saddle to touch the ground, her knees nearly gave way under her, thighs as weak as if they were made of water.

Suddenly, there was a hand at her elbow. Chlamash Tarkaan’s eyes were elsewhere, but his hand steadied her.

Aravis pulled away immediately, glaring at him. She glanced around quickly. In the commotion around them, no one had seen. “If I require your assistance,” she said through clenched teeth, even as she grasped the stirrups on the enormous horse’s side to avoid tumbling to the ground, “I will request it.”

He did not have time to reply, as the sand-muted thud of hooves broke through the Tisroc’s circle. Halting his steed by them, Khalid dismounted with so much ease that Aravis suspected he might be showing off on purpose.

“Gone are the days of Khasiks’ unblemished skin,” he said acidly under his breath, taking sight of her face. He was sweating in the heat just as much as the rest of them, but there was a glint in his eye that made her uneasy.

She ignored him, pretending she hadn’t heard—she had no energy to think of a retort—still gripping the horse as she felt her legs buzz with an oddly contradicting mixture of numbness and pain. She blinked away the water in her eyes before anyone had time to see it.

Chlamash had stepped in between her and Khalid, hand perpetually posed over his sword hilt.

Khalid scowled. “I merely came to report.” Behind him, the low tent meant for Aravis promised temporary shelter from the blistering light, if not from the heat itself. “Fareez Tarkaan has negotiated with Corradin to move his men, under the excuse that Zalindreh is disrupting the natural flow of the left flank. They will now be directly beside you.”

A man was preparing a trough for her horse, and Aravis braced herself to let go of the saddle. Her boots were planted firmly on the ground. Her body would hold. “How many men?” she asked.

“Fifty skilled, from Tehishbaan’s cavalry. Fareez himself is among them.”

Aravis clenched her jaw, willing her mind to make a decision, and her legs to hold her upright. If Chlamash noticed her dilemma, he made no move to help—he had learned his lesson.

With the trough filled, the man led her horse away to the shadow of the tent, and Aravis let go.

She remained standing.

“Leave them be,” she finally said. “Fareez will find one way or another; at least now we know towards whom to look.” She looked out at the sea of banners, under which men had huddled together, making the most of the scarce shade as they drank precious water. “I will find a way.”

Khalid gave a short nod, but made no move to leave. Chlamash was still a motionless figure between them.

“Have you something else to say, Tarkaan?” she demanded.

Khalid’s eyes flitted towards Chlamash, and then to her own. His lips curved into a slight sneer.

“Rest well, O Tisroc,” he told her, and stalked away.

Chlamash’s eyes remained focused on the direction in which he had gone for a long time. Then he glanced behind him, at where the guards flanked the small tent.

“If I may offer my advice, O Tisroc,” he said.

“Yes?”

“I would advise that you sleep in another tent,” he said, and the look in his eyes, more than anything, sent a thrill of fear down her spine. “Where no one will know to find you.”

.

The sun beat down upon the tent, one much smaller than the one meant for the Tisroc, and Aravis could not sleep, although she knew that this might be her last chance to rest before they reached the line of mountains in the evening, and war possibly broke out. The fabric that shielded her from the sun did not shield her from the people, and she was one in a multitude of thousands—thousands of men who wanted her dead.

Chlamash stood guard outside the Tisroc’s tent; but that was not the tent where Aravis was.

She had never felt more exposed in her life.

Her scimitar was pressed against her chest, her hand a fist around the hilt, prepared for use it if necessary. Every whisper of the sand or flapping of a tent made her start. This was the same route she had somehow travelled with Shasta in her dreams… or the route she _should_ have travelled with Shasta, had the gods had their way.

She reached behind her with her free hand and tried to feel the skin of her back, although it was impossible to do so through her clothes and the heavy armor. The ache of the ghost scars returned when she thought of it, powerful even over the aching pains riding had left on her body. The night before they had heard the noises of wild beasts in the distance. “ _Tash’s heralds, announcing his pass through the desert,_ ” some of the men had whispered.

Or Tash’s vultures, circling for prey.

Eyes wide open, all she could do was listen.

.

Her head was pounding by the time a soldier came for her, followed by a group that proceeded to dismantle the tent behind her. She could not tell if the men were surprised to see her there or not, but as she emerged into the light again, the white haze of the sand burning her eyes, she could tell that Chlamash had been uneasy. He all but sprang to her side as soon as she was close enough to the large, empty tent that had been meant for her.

Marekh Tarkaan was already at his side. She had not seen him since they had set out, although she knew that he must have been riding close to her. He seemed worried as he bowed. She could not blame him.

“Bring them to me,” Aravis told Chlamash, and stood at the low entrance, closing her eyes. Her brain was bruising her skull. The Grand Vizier fidgeted nervously as Chlamash’s footsteps moved away from them.

“Tell Kidrash Tarkaan to position a company from Calavar between the two halves of Tehishbaan, and move ten men to the frontlines,” Aravis told him. “It will cushion any mischief.”

“To hear is to obey,” he replied. “The scouts will have returned by now.”

“They have.” Aravis looked up as a shadow fell across her face. Khalid Tarkaan’s armor made him seem nearly thrice his size up close; an intimidating presence before whom Aravis felt no small rush of unease.

 “The others are already on their way,” he said, his voice a low grunt, out of dehydration or sullenness. “There will not be long to wait.”

Tents seemed to fold inwards all around them, men roused from rest to reform their troops, scrambling to clean the remnants of sparse meals and ensure the wellbeing of their horses. Chlamash returned shortly, and the three of them stood in silence, waiting for the Tarkaans—Aravis trying to shed the anxiety that during their short rest, alliances may have been created, and a mutinous plan drawn.

But snippets of conversation passed them, as the troop moved and men ran back and forth with supplies. Aravis listened as an old Tarkaan, leading three younger members of the cavalry, rode back from where they had presumably been standing watch.

“ _And a river of riches flowed Southwards, to rain upon Tash’s children,_ ” the old Tarkaan croaked from beneath the shadow of his turban. “All is now being fulfilled.”

Beside Aravis, Khalid let out a derisive sound. “Superstition is the surest of allies,” he quoted, just loud enough for her ears. He turned slightly to meet her gaze, eyes glinting. “Although such prophecies are oft accompanied by certainty that the barbarian demons will take the Tisroc’s life.”

“When their faith wavers at the failure of the second, the fulfillment of the first shall strengthen it,” she retorted, refusing to flinch.

But she saw the youth in the younger soldiers’ eyes, and wondered if they were not more likely to throw in their lot with Fareez. And for all his derision, she had no reason to trust the man beside her, either.

The others arrived soon after. Fareez Tarkaan came at the forefront, Corradin Tarkaan and his brother Ilgamuth close behind— _Ilgamuth of the Twisted Lip_ , he was called behind his back; not only had he the misfortune of being blasphemously named after a Tisroc, but he had been born with a terrible birth defect. After them came the elderly Azrooh Tarkaan of Teebeth, his richly ornamented clothing proof that he rode in a chariot, not on horseback. Even he seemed to look to Fareez for hints at how to behave.

Bilash Tarkaan of Tehishbaan wielded much power through his son.

The men’s faces were dusty and sweaty, but their backs were upright, as if they were prepared to march into battle at any moment. Aravis felt impossibly small and weak, muscles still aching from riding, hauberk chafing against her skin.

Kidrash Tarkaan came seconds later, on horseback. Aravis had forgotten how riding horses always took twenty years from her father’s back; his normally slightly hunched posture had disappeared under the armor, the thinness of his frame and greyness of his hair forgotten as he expertly maneuvered his horse to stop before them. It was in his home that Aravis had learned to ride.

Her fingers grazed the steel and leather of her armor, the careful plating that had been done to fit her, and her only. She was still the Tisroc, no matter how many had allied themselves against her.

Behind her father came Farrokh Tarkaan, leader of Azim Balda, and the Tarkaan from Mezreel, whose name Aravis could not remember. Tentative allies, against Tehishbaan’s alliance of vicious enemies… the numbers were nearly evenly split.

She caught Chlamash’s eye as he held his ground slightly before her, hand still on his scimitar. It was little comfort. She nodded at Marekh.

The Grand Vizier cleared his throat, stepping forward. There was no time for niceties with the sun brutally beating down on them.

“The Tisroc (may she live forever) commands that Tehishbaan’s company be separated in halves, with one third of Calavar’s cavalry in between, and ten Calavar men riding on the frontlines. In such manner, our progress will be swifter.”

“Arrangements were already made, O Tisroc. Corradin and I had solved the issue of the left flank privately; there is no need for a third province.” Fareez’s tone was deferent, but there was threat in his expression. He stared directly at her, bypassing Marekh entirely.

Aravis smiled thinly. “I, too, was concerned with the pace. Now it will be doubly improved.”

There were no scowls; only a silent tension that Aravis found much more sinister. Fareez did not move an inch. Already, his posture was that of a man in power.

Marekh ground his teeth. “Have we heard word from the scouts?”

“The scouts have returned. The barbarians have moved their troops to the pass. We nearly double them in number.”

There were satisfied mutters all around, although this was hardly news; the North could never have mustered as large a company as Aravis had.

But Farrokh Tarkaan of Azim Balda squinted up at the sky, grimacing. “I caught sight of an Eagle earlier. It is well known that the barbarians use such demons to spy on their enemies.”

“They watch us, as we watch them,” Azrooh scowled, his wrinkled features contracting. “I do not trust them to engage in legitimate battle. Who knows of what treachery they are capable?”

“They will be afraid,” Aravis said. “And we will bring to them the fear of Tash.”

Farrokh did not dare answer to her face, but he focused on Marekh as he spoke. “I would remind my brothers in arms that the barbarians are a wild people, whose dealings with demons and ghosts stretch back through the ages. They are no common enemy.”

“Prophecies and curses,” Khalid murmured at Aravis’ side, just loud enough for her ears.

She knew what he was thinking. _And no Tisroc survives an encounter with the North._

The scars from her dream tingled and burned.

.

_“He that would find that way must start from the Tombs of the Ancient Kings and ride north-west so that the double peak of Mount Pire is always straight ahead of him.”_

Sunset fell behind them, and the demon’s words rang repeatedly in Aravis’ mind. Her horse walked briskly on, now invigorated by the cooling sand in the absence of the blistering heat. Kidrash rode closer, in between her and Fareez, but she did not make eye contact. Khalid was close to Chlamash at her other side, and often she found her own hand straying to her sword hilt, mimicking the Guard.

She thought of Ishamiel, left behind in Tashbaan, holding an Empire together without knowing if there was yet hope. With all the most dangerous Tarkaans away from the city, things were likely uncharacteristically quiet—all danger was closely wound around Aravis.

Her weariness had evaporated as the sky darkened. Now all that was left was the bone-crushing tension of what was to come.

Their calculations had been correct, after all. Even with the slow pace Teebeth’s chariots could muster through the dunes, they had reached the line of the mountains. Aravis could see it ahead, now; a sharp ridge against a night sky. Soon, it would all fade into one towering wall of darkness.

Somehow, in proximity to Mount Pire, distance seemed even longer, until Aravis wondered how many hours the sun had remained frozen just beyond the horizon, still casting reddish haze against the ragged clouds that hung Southwards. The distance seemed too long, too ominous.

This was not how she should have arrived. She should have galloped through the pass in daylight, riding Hwin, at Shasta’s side. 

Her throat constricted. Hwin remained a slave in the palace stables. And Aravis—Aravis did not know what she was.

Finally, the ridge was directly before them, and scouts had confirmed what lay in the narrow pass ahead. _“A man might be within a furlong of it a thousand times and never know that it was there,_ ” the demon had said. Now a body of ten thousand strong made to storm through it.

The army curved inwards on itself, slowing in the middle, and suddenly the Tarkaans appeared, eyes glinting against newly-kindled torchlight. The House banners above them flapped invisible in the darkness, their soldiers closing in behind them. Aravis felt trapped in the semicircle. The wind brushed through her veil and her hair, back and forth—a strange, sharp taste of the barbarian North.

She could hear the men whisper.

Khalid steered his horse and fell in step at her left. Fareez and his allies approached slowly, eyeing the mountain line. They gazed out at the tall cliffs that walled in the pass with disquiet.

“They will have already seen us,” Aravis said, her voice coming out stronger than it was. “They must await just beyond.”

The horses kicked at the sand, which was now harder, mixed with particles of rock. The wheels of the chariots had rattled, and the boots of the footmen thudded against the new ground, but now the army stood in eerie stillness, gazing out into the encroaching darkness.

In the distance, Aravis thought she saw something glimmer.

“Their camp is not far,” Marekh said, a hand on his turbaned helm, which threatened to unwind itself in the wind. “The pass is too narrow to allow for a wide charge; they might find it advantageous.”

“It may be best to attack in the night,” Kidrash Tarkaan said. “They will have more difficulty shooting. Those crags pose too great an opportunity.”

Ilgamuth Tarkaan scowled, his already marred features twisting strangely. “I am sure they are equipped with fire—but I suspect the cliffs are much too steep to allow for a body of archers.”

“It is, nonetheless, more difficult to shoot in these conditions than in broad daylight,” Farrokh interjected. “I would also advise nighttime—perhaps some hour approaching dawn, when their troops are the weakest.”

Azrooh Tarkaan shook his head, eyes hooded in the darkness. “I would not march our troops through a dark pass with demons awaiting on the other side; not for anything in the world.”

Aravis turned to him, pinning him down with her gaze. “You would deny my orders?”

His leathery, wrinkled features blanched slightly. “I would _advise_ , O Tisroc, may you live forever,” he replied, clearing his throat. “That given the tendency of the barbarians to slaughter our people through subtle means of dark magic, it is not advisable to expose ourselves to such treachery in the darkness.”

The group shifted slightly, and Aravis sighed. While most of the Tarkaans had more on their minds than superstition at the moment, the captains they led were much more susceptible to fear. And if she herself was having strange dreams, despite her knowledge that a curse could not possibly be real…

The last thing she needed was an army so terrorized at the prospect of fighting a demonic enemy that they saw things that weren’t there in the darkness and lost their minds mid-battle.

“Very well,” she said. “We ride in the morning. For now, let the men rest and be well-fed. I doubt the barbarians will dare to venture out, given how few they are.”

But she hesitated before ending the meeting, because the lights were still flickering before her, and she had a sudden vision of a sprawling city with red roofs, a stout, richly-dressed man laughing, and Shasta… Shasta looking at her with a grave expression in his eyes.

She flinched.

“I will send word to the Barbarian King,” she told the Tarkaans. “Let them cower in their camp as they await the inevitable.”

.

The messenger was sent a few hours later. By then, torches had been planted in the ground like fiery flowers, and a tentative camp was set up. In the shadow of Mount Pire, the men had grown quiet, whispering prayers for Tash to banish the Northern demons.

As the Tarkaans spread out towards their men, to drink and eat before battle fell upon them, Aravis left towards her tent, veering away at the last moment and leaving the Grand Vizier and Chlamash behind her. Her horse drank water noisily from an equally thirsty groom. She tugged at the veil and finally pulled off the helmet altogether, exposing her hair to the wind.

She allowed herself to vanish in the darkness.

Beyond the ring of firelight, she was nothing. Perhaps food for jackals, if she wandered far enough; but between the two massive armies, it was unlikely that life would risk venturing out. The sand felt softer, somehow, and the wide expanse of nothingness was both terrifying and relieving. It was better to be alone than in the crushing presence of the murderous thousands.

Here the wind was loud, whispering against the rocky cliffs ahead, carrying a sheet of sand everywhere it went. Shielded by the dark as she was, Aravis sat cross-legged on the flat ground and breathed in the Northern air until her lungs ached.

If Shasta were here, he would have understood the gaping wail that was the desert at night—pure exposure to the elements, a time that seemed to drag on endlessly and yet seemed to end much too quickly.

But Shasta was not here, and she was alone.

In the privacy of the darkness, she reached behind her and touched her back, pressing her lips together to avoid letting out an exclamation of pain. Her entire body was shaking. But she could see the dark shapes of the camp behind her, the torch fires flickering in the night, and she knew that she could not afford to let them see her like this.

She was the Tisroc of Calormen.

Before her, somewhere in the darkness, was the peak of Mount Pire. Before her, Archenland waited.

It felt like hours later that she returned, doing her best not to drag her feet. None, it seemed, had noticed her absence. The camp was a steady, low murmur, guards poised at the furthest North, watching for a reply from the barbarian King. The scent of soup and bread hit her nose; deceptively homelike.

Aravis did not even know what was expected of a Tisroc on the frontlines; if she was expected to give a speech, and what she could possibly say. Her swordsmanship was not terrible, but it was unlikely to match the force of a trained barbarian fighter.

But her message had been fierce. Letters, at least, she knew how to write.

The entrance to her tent was deserted when she reached it. Smaller tents were around it, but she could see no sentries. Placing the helmet on her head again, she took a deep breath. Now was no time for weak sentiment, or for thoughts of Shasta. There were no lions here; only the sharp claws of the Calormene themselves.

She walked inside.

The first thing she noticed was the dark mass hanging from the curved tent roof, but nearly tripping moved her attention downwards. Her foot had collided with armor; the shoulder plate of a soldier lying face-down at the edge of the rich carpet spread for the Tisroc, one arm twisted beneath him, the other held up to his neck, blood streaming down it. He was dead.

The tent shifted, bending with the new weight imposed upon it. The mass hanging from above was Chlamash Tarkaan, strung up with chain and wire, the sort used for repairing chariots, blood dripping down from where the wire had slit through his neck, and where a scimitar had sliced down his torso, leaving him open like a slaughtered animal.

…

_In the name of Tash, the inexorable, the magnificent._

_To King Cor, first of his name, ruler of the barbarian lands._

_O enemy,_

_The day dawned red when your demon’s curse fell, and stole Rabadash Tisroc away even. It spread among my people, and attempted to steal from us the might that built our empire. Whereupon I, seizing the reins of power in my predecessor’s passing, rode Northwards with ten thousand to end this terrible pain and grant my people their deserved vengeance. Verily, generously have we allowed the barbarian peoples to spread and profit from the green lands of the North; but that time is no longer._

_Let it be known to you, therefore, my intention to take hold of your lands and deliver your people from the chains of demonic tyranny. Forewarn your men, that they may not protest, lest they be executed. You have seen the power of Calormen firsthand; make not the same mistake again._

_If you surrender, I shall grant you and your heirs life and prosperity, removed from the weight of responsibility. Your people, too, shall enjoy a fruitful life as Calormen’s subjects, by the will of Tash, the mighty, the all-seeing. This I pledge to you._

_Reflect on this matter wisely, O King. Well have the poets said that a king holds the measure of fate of his people, but the gods hold kings’ necks by a thread. Look beyond your encampment! See how weak is the string from which you hang._

_The Tisroc of Calormen and the Southern Lands._

Cor dropped the letter as if he had been burned, blood boiling. The messenger had come bearing a white flag against the frightening, bird-like banner of Calormen. A contradiction, as duplicitous as the enemy had always been.

“How dare they?” Corin exclaimed, face flushed with anger. “To add insult to injury is brazen, even for them!”

“This is a new Tisroc,” Cor said numbly. “He must be of a different temperament.” He turned towards Peridan. “I suppose we must redact an equally scathing reply.”

“I would much rather reply with the sword, instead of exchanging petty niceties that veil threats,” Corin snapped.

Peridan, who was sitting in a chair across the tent, waved away the letter, expression dark. “I need not finish it. I am familiar with the manner of speech. I remember my days in Tashbaan with excruciating clarity.”

_See how weak is the string from which you hang_.

Cor sighed, and called for Varlin.

.

_It strikes me, as I sit with this crown upon my head in the aftermath of Calormen’s treacherous slaughtering of our people, and the violent murder of my father, King Lune, that you dare accuse us of bad faith. Archenland and Calormen were not outwardly enemies until the moment you struck at Anvard. If your gods are as merciful as you claim, then indeed the loss of Rabadash has been a kindness to your people; never in my life had I gazed upon the face of one so godless._

_Archenland will never bow to the rule of a Tisroc, much less will I surrender the crown to those who have caused me, my kin, and our people interminable pain. The combined powers of Archenland and Narnia are yet great, and you will have two Kings to contend with._

_If this is indeed our last stand against a deceitful empire, then let it be so. From my infancy I have battled you, and now I see what poetic logic exists behind this contention. I am eager now to take my revenge; for the pain you caused my father, for the pain you have caused this family from the moment you inserted yourself into its dealings, and for the terrible suffering you have caused this kingdom._

_Archenland has survived the White Winter, a threat even the Tisrocs of Calormen feared. Do you think we fear you?_

_Well met, Tisroc. When we meet on the battlefield, my sword will sing the sweet song of justice._

_Cor, first of his name, King of Archenland._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was SO DIFFICULT! I've been working on it every day for what feels like months.  
> Thank you for your wonderful comments!


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Character list can be found [here](https://nasimwrites.tumblr.com/post/160402814232/the-tisroc-and-the-king-character-list).

Chlamash Tarkaan’s body hung in a macabre imitation of the stillness that had characterized him in life; tense with the gradual onset of death, he remained motionless as the tent above him swayed gently, wooden poles creaking. Aravis could not see his face: it was twisted back by the wire, as if he were looking up, waiting for Tash to deal the final blow.

Below his neck, his body was a mess of armor and red, ragged flesh.

The smell of blood finally hit Aravis’ nostrils and she staggered backwards, hands fumbling for her sword. Under the heavy weight of her armor, her heart seemed to stutter with shock, and then roar back to life with horrific speed. Chlamash was dead.

He was dead in the Tisroc’s tent; which meant that his killers had entered sacred ground and strung Chlamash up as they had meant to execute the Tisroc: like a wild hog, its only worth its flesh.

Aravis was shaking. She had been shaking for a while now, but as the initial shock receded, terror set in. Where was Chlamash’s sword? After looking around without stepping away from where she stood, she found it, half-obscured by the mattress. She would have been sleeping there, had she not wandered away from the camp. By Tash’s mercy, she had been saved – and Chlamash had taken the killing blow.

The Head of the Guard was dead. The Tisroc had survived… but for how much longer?

The walls of the tent fluttered and shook, as if a million men were already surrounding her, pressing against the canvas, ready to drag her by her neck, slit through her stomach and gut her like an animal, ready to put an end to the Usurper’s reign of arrogance…

Fareez Tarkaan had won this war before they had even set foot in Northern territory. Tehishbaan had seized power, with Zalindreh and Teebeth at its side. Who dealt the final blow no longer mattered: the throne belonged to Bilash Tarkaan, and the short-lived reign of a former wife would disappear from Calormen’s memory.

There was a sound of scraping boots on hardened sand behind her, and the flap at the entrance shifted. Aravis whirled around, drew her sword, and with a suddenly steady hand and pressed it up against the neck of the man who entered.

Marekh Tarkaan stared at her with horrified eyes. No one else walked in behind him.

Aravis could hear her voice tremble when she spoke, every muscle taut. “Did you do this?”

The Grand Vizier was in full armor, but never once did his hand stray to the scimitar at his side. Instead, he stammered, eyes wide before Aravis’ burning ones. “I—I—” his gaze moved to the twisted body suspended behind her. He paled. “Is… is that Chlamash?”

The stench of the blood passed over her again and Aravis quelled the urge to vomit. Her sword slipped against Marekh’s exposed neck, and he winced with pain. Her arm began to shake. “Was it you?”

“Tisroc—” he began to tremble as well, and the wind made the tent walls push inwards, as if the structure itself were holding its breath.

“ _Was it you?_ ”

“No! No, by Tash…!”

Aravis searched his eyes, looking for a hint of treachery, but all she could see was terror. Behind her, she felt as if Chlamash’s dead form were watching her. Marekh kept glancing at the body, then looking away.

She released him.

Stumbling back, the Vizier gasped for breath and then pressed a hand over his mouth. Aravis did not lessen her grip on the sword. The tent exhaled again, a thin layer of sand making its way into the room and settling into the puddles of blood. But then Marekh swallowed, drawing himself up to his full height and lowering his trembling hand. Like her, he had come to understand the sudden gravity of their situation. His eyes followed hers to the entrance of the tent.

 “How soon until sunrise?” she asked quietly. If Khalid Tarkaan had had a hand in this, then she might be dead before the sun came up.

“Nearly two hours,” Marekh replied, voice a quaver. “The barbarian King sent his reply.”

“What did it say?”

His eyes met hers and he looked away quickly as if stricken.

She had not sheathed her sword. It was risen in midair, still prepared to strike. Around them, the desert wind rose, and the flapping of the tent all around them felt as if the army was pressing in at all sides. Aravis kept her eyes on the entrance. “I know you read it already; whether it was you or the other Tarkaans, I do not care. _What did he say_?”

Marekh swallowed. “He refused your generosity. He is thirsty for blood.”

Aravis glanced back at Chlamash. His blood still dripped onto the sand, wires cutting into his arms where armor had failed him. “As am I,” she said, and tried to cease her trembling. “Bring Kidrash Tarkaan to me.”

“Here?”

“What use is there in leaving, when they might be watching already?”

Marekh nodded, but his frame still shook. “And—and the body?”

Her knuckles were white against the sword hilt. “First we must survive the night.”

With one last frightened look at her, he slipped away, hunched over as if he feared becoming a target – which he might very well be. It was unfair, Aravis thought, in a sudden rush of cruel bitterness, that it had been Chlamash, and not Marekh who had been lost. Chlamash, at least, had the ability to think things through calmly.

Aravis pressed the back of her hand to her mouth, then stepped away from the bloodied carpet. She did not dare stand beside the tent walls; it was, perhaps, dangerous anyway, but she could not shake the idea of being stabbed through the canvas as she leaned against it. Her eyes watered.

She had known that this would happen, really. She could not pretend that death had not been the most likely option when she left Tashbaan: indeed, she had counted on it. And yet here she was, shivering like a leaf, facing the bodies death had left behind and able to do nothing but wait.

She forced her hand down from her face, and blinked away the tears. She could hardly feel the weight of her armor anymore: terror had taken hold of her senses and rid her of her weariness. Well, then; she would make the most of what little she had left. If it was the rush of fear that availed her, then she would use it until her last.

Her sword was still in her hand. At the realization, she lowered its point onto the carpet with a muted thud. Hardening her resolve she looked up at Chlamash—at the wire that still somehow held him. She could not reach high enough, and the sword would not be able to severe the chain. Chlamash would have to wait.

Aravis wondered if he had had a family; if there had been anything else in his life besides the commitment he had to the Tisroc. It was all too late now. There was no time for prayers or mourning.

Around her, the tent shivered with renewed intensity, and she could hear the hushed voices of men approaching: the sound of hooves against the hardened sand. Tightening her grip, she stepped forwards again, closer to Chlamash, as if he could yet protect her.

But mercifully, it was Marekh again. Behind him came her father, and his face grew ashen as he stepped through the entrance and caught sight of the carnage within.

“By Tash—!”

Aravis tamed her emotions, crushing them down and fixing Kidrash with a searching look. “I trust that you knew nothing of this.”

He gaped for a moment, eyes moving from Chlamash’s body to that of the guard’s on the ground. When he attempted to speak, no sound came out. Finally, he cleared his throat, tone choked with dread. “This must  be Fareez’ doing; Bilash’s command from Tehishbaan. We have pushed too far.”

Aravis had no time to wonder at the ‘ _we_ ’. She ground her teeth. “Might Zalindreh and Teebeth be a part of this?”

He nodded, his face terribly grim. “Most likely. Khalid Tarkaan I would not trust, either.”

Aravis let out a breath, turning away slightly. She had not wanted to doubt her own decision in bringing Khalid instead of Ishamiel, but it seemed that she had made a terrible miscalculation. However, there was no time now for regret. Blinking away the blinding terror that threatened to rise to her head, she turned back to her father. “Then why have they not attacked?”

She had never seen Kidrash Tarkaan look so agitated, yet so intensely focused. Despite his advanced age, the danger only seemed to make him stand more upright. Aravis wondered if this was what made him such a respected Tarkaan among the warring men; or if it was his own stake in her powerful position that was holding him together.

“They would have left your body to be found after the battle, and then blamed it on the barbarians,” he said. “But my men are standing alert all around us; they cannot attack now if they do not want an all-out battle, and to be rid of Calavar on the eve of war is a price they cannot afford.”

So she had escaped a terrible death by a hair’s breadth; it was most likely that on her return from her walk in the darkness, she had just missed her assassins.

Aravis took a deep breath and smelled death all around her. “The sun will rise soon,” she said, her common sense beginning to take control. “Their quarrel with me has lower priority before the threat of Archenland. They will take the North before they revisit assassination.”

But Kidrash’s expression did not change. “It will be easier for them to betray you in foreign territory,” he said gravely. “Even more so, perhaps, in the heat of battle.”

If she survived battle at all, that is, Aravis thought, but did not say.

There was a sudden scuffle outside, and a voice let out a loud exclamation of outrage, only to be stifled by who Aravis presumed were her father’s personal guard. Her grip on her sword tightened again. Kidrash Tarkaan turned just as his guard from Calavar looked in, growing pale at the sight of the bodies.

“What is it?” Kidrash snapped.

“O Tisroc, may you live forever,” the soldier gasped, then cleared his throat, turning to the Tarkaan. “There are members of the Tisroc’s Guard, may she live forever, seeking audience. I do not—I do not believe that they know what has happened.”

They did not know. And as a man from the Guard who had often been at Chlamash’s side stepped into the tent, Aravis felt faint pity for the young man who stared with wide eyes at the suspended body of his superior.

“Chlamash Tarkaan is dead,” she said, somehow managing the words without tremor. “As is one of the men of the Guard. I grieve the injustice done to them; but more so, I wonder by whose hand they were betrayed.”

The young man threw himself to her feet, dangerously close to the blood. He flinched upon the realization, but pressed his forehead to the edge of the carpet nonetheless. “The Guard is ever loyal to the Tisroc, may she live forever!” he exclaimed, anguish in his voice. “We live to protect her from this shameless treachery, and avenge our brothers, whose lives were honored by being spent in the path of servitude.”

She allowed herself to relax her grip on her sword. “In Chlamash’s absence, who is second in command?”

 “This servant, O Tisroc.”

“Can you vouch for all your men, Tarkaan?” she asked sharply.

He did not hesitate. “With my life.”

Aravis stared at him for a moment. Irrationally, she desperately wished to trust everyone; the notion that her judgement could be any more flawed was unbearable. Rationally, she knew she could not be sure of anything. But she was unlikely to survive much longer. For the moment, all she had was her sword and a semblance of power, at least in words.

“Then rise, Head of the Guard,” she told the young man. “You may be called for such a sacrifice yet.”

She looked away from him, to her father and to the Vizier. “Send word that we march at dawn. The more urgent the rush, the less of a chance they have to regroup.”

Marekh nodded, bowing, and all but trotted outside, calling for men to follow. It felt almost unbearably loud; armor and boots clinking and thudding, tearing through the stillness of the night. But the camp would be roused very soon, and the noise would be much louder.

Aravis turned to the new Head of the Guard. “Retrieve the dead and lay them to rest as befits their rank. A ceremony will be arranged once the fighting is over.”

“To hear is to obey.”

He would not look at the bodies as he walked backwards towards the door. Aravis forgot to ask his name.

Kidrash Tarkaan was the only one left. His eyes were grave as he looked at her. “Khalid Tarkaan was the wrong choice,” he said.

Despite the coldness of the desert around them, and the carnage that had taken place in the tent, Aravis felt again like a child, small and defiant before her father.

Her jaw tightened and she dug the tip of her sword into the carpet, looking away, a sour taste on her tongue. “You are dismissed.”

.

The sky was turning pale, blue-tinged pink around the edges, and Aravis stood for a long time at the edge of the tent, surrounded by the Guard. Chlamash Tarkaan’s body had been retrieved, wrapped in a roll of fabric and hidden in another tent until the time came to tend to it. The remaining men were tense, their hands permanently on the hilts of their scimitars, their armor like a wall around her. Being outside was somehow even more stifling than being inside.

The mountain range was now visible, ragged edges stark against the sky, far above them. She could just barely see the dip between them in the current light.

Kidrash Tarkaan’s men galloped through the tents towards the frontlines, the pounding hooves marking the pace of Aravis’ heart. Already the city of white canvas was beginning to fold in on itself, men springing from uneasy rest to take up arms. Calavar’s example had set the rhythm for the others. Aravis could see the banners of Zalindreh rising in the West, and the sound of chariot wheels in movement could be heard from Teebeth’s section of the camp.

The pressure had mounted. If Fareez, Khalid and the others had meant this to be her reaction when they killed Chlamash, Aravis was riding head-on into the trap.

But it was the only option. War against Archenland had been the only solution when she was Tashbaan, and it now continued to be the only option she could think of. Dying in a foreign land, at least—dying in battle—was a more honorable way to die than having her throat slit in Rabadash’s chambers. Leaving the legacy of Northern conquest to her name, reviled as it may be for being that of a woman, was almost worth the madness that had come with the attempt.

She had already died long before Rabadash’s death, anyway. To die at war would merely be a formality.

For Lasaraleen, Badrih and Aya’s sake, however, she wished things could end differently.

Her horse would be brought to her, soon. Her hand was still on her sword-hilt, although it was now sheathed. Her hands felt stained with Chlamash’s blood, although she had not touched the body. She had seen more blood in the last few weeks than she had in a lifetime.

And now she would be riding into the very center of violence.

What did she know of war, after all? Only the tales of glory the Tarkaans often spoke of, and the distant horror of the death of her brother. She had wielded a sword only when faced with one enemy, never surrounded on all sides. A Guard could only avail a Tisroc for so long, after all. War was merciless, and did not care for rank or gender.

The air in the desert suddenly fell silent, devoid of its natural breeze, as if the ground itself was holding its breath. Aravis’ back prickled again; the ghost of the lion’s scars aching on her back, so clear and real that she nearly flinched. In the East, a thin line of orange-gold had appeared, and suddenly the pass in the mountains was visible to her: a cavity in the otherwise firm wall of Archenland – a path, sent by Tash, that led straight to the enemy.

Something was awaiting her, beyond the mountains. But whether it was pain or peace, she did not know.

…

It was hard to see beyond the narrow pass, even on the hill, but the scouts had been correct. In the cold dawn air, as the sun only began its path across the sky, the Calormenes were stirring with a frenzy that could only point to an attack.

Cor held his sheathed sword with both hands and weighed it in his grasp. It had been a gift, on the year that he had become a man. Back then, it had seemed infinitely heavy; by now, it had somehow become an extension of his arm, just like Dar had assured him it would.

The man in question was standing at his side, watching the soldiers of Archenland advancing towards the narrowest section of the pass, leaving the camp behind them. To the west of the hill, a group of centaurs, fauns and cats were advancing. The cats looked particularly bloodthirsty – their fur was on end, teeth bared in the dim light of the torches. They looked more ferocious than most of the soldiers.

A way behind them came Peridan, accompanied by his captains, trotting hastily through the tents that remained. Small companies of Archen soldiers parted to allow him passage, but Cor could not make out their expressions.

“Sire,” Dar said in a low voice, following his train of thought. “Perhaps King Peridan ought to be informed of the risk.”

Cor turned to look at him. Dar’s expression was grim. The current of treachery that ran through the Lords of Archenland was still a secret kept only by Cor, Corin, Dar and Darrin. It made Cor sick to think of it.

“The greater risk now is war,” Cor replied after a moment. “There is no use in exposing disunity when so much depends on our joint success.”

“Our silence may put him in more danger.”

Cor felt the truth in his words, but stifled his own anxiety. “When this is over.”

There was a sound of hooves, and Corin rode up, followed by Lord Hawken and Lord Luiden. Luiden in particular seemed energized, seeming ten years younger upon a horse than he had inside the castle halls. Somewhat darkly, Cor felt glad that at least someone had found happiness in the tragedy of it all.

“I just spoke to the Narnians,” Corin said by way of greeting, dismounting and coming to stand at Cor’s side. “Half the centaurs will be at the front, flanking our Guard. Our archers can join the other half just behind the cavalry.”

Cor frowned. “I thought the archers would take to the cliffs? Perhaps some of the Narnians would wish to join them.”

“Sire, the cliffs are too dangerous,” Luiden said, seeming rather embarrassed at knowing something Cor did not. Cor had forgotten how pleasant in nature the men of the Western Mines were. “The rock is too fragile and will crumble beneath a company. I believe the Narnians have opted to remain on the ground, where their resources may be used best, and we might do well in following suit.”

Cor sighed. “We have no choice, then. Pity; I had hoped we could yet use the cliffs to our advantage.”

There was no comforting reply. The men around him were much too rational. Lord Hawken scowled as he looked down at the wavering torchlight of the camp. “If we were not so terribly outnumbered such a position might ensure victory. As it is, this is a matter of outlasting them.”

Dar nodded, expression grim, but Cor did not reply. He still could not forget the way Hawken had spoken of Peridan; for all his own talk of postponing disunity, he could hardly bear to look at Hawken without disgust.

Soon Kairn, Archard and Ombert joined them on the hill, a few pages bringing waterskins. As the lords turned to discuss their own matters, Cor moved closer to Corin and spoke out loud the concern that had been lingering in his mind. “I fear that they might ambush us even as we are organizing ourselves.”

Corin’s eyes were burning with a dark, almost frightening kind of determination. “We may yet ambush _them_.”

Cor frowned. “No.”

“What use is it to wait for them to strike at us, when we know we are outnumbered?” Corin’s voice was cold but calm, and it was the rationality of it that disturbed Cor. “They ambushed us already at Anvard; this is not treachery—it is justice.”

“I will not sink to the level of my father’s murderer,” Cor said quietly, thinking back to the Council meeting where Shar had proposed the unspeakable. “Not against Narnia, and not even against Calormen. Our integrity will not be lost to desperation.”

Corin looked away, eyes bright in the firelight. But he said nothing more.

.

In the shadow of dawn, even the shining white-and-red of Archenland and the red-and-gold of Narnia were muted. Horses kicked at the dust under them, men silenced by their own apprehension, and even covered in layers of leather and iron, Cor felt unspeakably cold.

The camp was being gradually emptied, soldiers hastening to where the valley narrowed into the pass between the mountains. The rock all around them seemed like a thick wall of darkness, and the Narnia and Archenland’s soldiers stood in close proximity to each other as lines filed in from the valley—Narnian Talking Beasts standing alongside Archen riders; Fauns and Satyrs quietly sharing words with young foot soldiers. At the very front of the company, Cor and Corin secured their saddles as the captains set the troops in order.

Cor was vaguely aware that he had not slept since early in the day before, but his mind felt clearer than it had felt in a long while; although as a company of Talking Horses passed him, some of which he recognized from their conversation the day before, he had a sudden glimpse of the dark-haired girl swaying with exhaustion as they rode into the valley. He blinked and the image was gone.

At his side, Corin was examining his blade, his jaw set. He had been waiting for this day ever since Rabadash had stormed Anvard. But as he looked up at Cor and held his gaze, the anguish in his eyes was unmistakable.

Cor swallowed. “You’ll keep your promise?” he asked.

For a moment, Corin did not reply. But then, sheathing his sword with one unwavering movement, he nodded. “I’ll retreat on your order.”

“Thank you.”

They were wearing heavy armor, the sort that made any form of contact uncomfortable, but nevertheless Cor bridged the gap between them and pulled his brother into a hug, his chin on Corin’s shoulder. They had often measured their height side-by-side, nervously comparing, eager to be the tallest. They had always remained exactly the same.

Drawing back, Cor saw in Corin’s eyes some of the hardened determination he wished he felt in his own.

There was a sudden commotion near them, and they turned to see three soldiers from Archenland approaching; archers, judging by the longbows and quivers on their backs. They were meant to be further back in the formation, not approaching the King, and Cor saw some of the Lords nearby give them strange looks. But the men ignored them, instead bowing before Cor.

“Your Majesty,” said one of the men, tall and elegant; clearly of respectable rank in the village he lived in. “I am Mildor of the Farmlands, at Your Majesty’s service. We have heard that no archers are to be placed on the clifftops.”

Cor looked at him with some confusion. “It is too steep to afford losing men to the fall,” he replied.

“But Your Majesty, my cousins and I are accustomed to climbing; we have worked in villages near the mountains before. By my life, I swear that—with Your Majesty’s blessing—we will stand at the cliffs and rain down as many arrows as we can.”

Cor looked at Corin, who shrugged, his expression that of agreement. The cliffs may be dangerous, but the advantage of height might mean salvation for a few more soldiers below. Mildor and his companions waited expectantly.

“Very well,” Cor said cautiously, glancing at the barely-visible ridges that rose far above them. “I will not give you the order to put yourselves at such risk, but if it is your wish, then your service is gratefully accepted. You are doing much for Archenland.”

With a triumphant smile, Mildor bowed low, his companions following suit. Cor thought he saw tears on the cheeks of one of them. But then they retreated almost as quickly as they had come. Between the brave archers, the birds and the gryphons, perhaps they would have more of a chance against the Calormenes.

But time was short. The army was almost complete, and the sky was growing paler by the second. Most of the torches in the camp behind them had already been put out. With the sound of hooves, Peridan and his captains joined the forefront, Peridan’s shining armor gleaming even in the dark. It was a pleasant reminder that they were not alone.

As Cor pulled himself onto his saddle, one of the Centaurs passed by him: an older creature, his dark mane of hair lined with grey.

“Well met, Your Majesty,” the Centaur said in a low, deep voice. “It is my honor to ride with Archenland when it is ruled by such a King.”

“I—Thank you, friend,” Cor stammered, rather taken aback. Centaurs did not give compliments freely. “But what do you mean?”

In the scarce light, the Centaur’s eyes seemed to shine all on their own. “King Cor is a child of prophecy, is he not? _He will_ _deliver Archenland from the deadliest danger in which ever she lay_ _. Your name is long known to the stars, both in the North and in the East.”_

The words sent a chill down Cor’s spine that had nothing to do with the coolness of the air. He opened his mouth to reply, but the Centaur was gone, joining Peridan’s guard and standing too far from him.

It was at that moment that a scout appeared in the distance, a thin line of dust rising behind him, the noise of his horse’s hooves echoing with a clatter through the gap between the cliffs. The army stilled suddenly, holding its breath. Above the cliffs, a gryphon circled.

When the man reached them, his eyes were wide with alarm. At the exact same moment, the gryphon finally landed in a rather dusty heap before the army; the Narnian and Archen scouts had been working together.

“Your Majesties—” said the gryphon, bowing its head.

“They ride hither,” the scout from Archenland finished.

.

They rode to the frontlines just as the first glittering rays of the sun blinded the horizon. Around them, the gap between the cliffs steadily became wider. Ahead, the desert was oddly silent and still; the winds that normally swept the sand to and fro unmoving, for once, as if the ground itself were holding its breath. Cor wondered if the rumble he could hear on the ground was his own army, or that of Calormen.

He looked up at the crags, sharp against the lightening sky. He could not see the archers from where he was, but the Talking Birds of Narnia swooped in the air in smooth circles. Below, the Beasts on foot seemed on edge, sniffing the still air. The men of Archenland marched on stoically, but Cor could see fear in the eyes of many.

The words of the Centaur still rang in his mind, unsettling his carefully crafted composure. He was a child of prophecy – that much was true. And he _was_ King of Archenland, in the darkest day his country had ever seen. The prophecy, the dreams, and the way it all seemed to be merging with reality… what was the significance of it all? How did the story end?

He should not be riding towards the desert, he thought suddenly, senselessly. He should be riding with Aravis in the opposite direction.

As a child, Cor had always thought of being King as being someone who ruled from the throne, restraining petty politics, negotiating trade deals and occasionally travelling to oversee the people’s affairs. The concept of a King at war he had always reserved for the past; a role for King Cole, and one that would no longer be necessary in modern ages. It was strange to find himself, scarcely a handful of years after Nurse Aida had ceased overseeing his bedtime, leading an army of thousands into battle.

They rode at a swift trot as dawn turned to morning. The colors slowly began to stand out again, and the grey world of dawn became much more real. The end of the cliffs ahead shone bright in contrast to the shadowy rock, and Cor strained his eyes to catch a glimpse of what awaited beyond.

In the distant sunlight, the edge of the rock shone golden as it opened into the smooth plains of the desert, its distant dunes stretching out as far as the eye could see. But with a blinding glint, Cor suddenly saw much more than just the desert sands. The sun’s rays hit metal and steel as well: a line of soldiers so long that, through the threshold of the pass, it spanned the desert entirely.

The Calormene army was massive; and spread out as it was, it seemed ten times larger than the army behind Cor. The sharp points of spears seemed to pierce the very air, and in the stillness of the land, the explosion of color of their horses, their armor and their turbans felt like a violent rip in the peaceful desert.

On the largest of the multitude of banners that flew above them, Cor glimpsed the angry dark figure of the Calormene god: Tash, its bird-like beak raised to the heavens.

The Northern army came to a halt. Heart pounding, Cor turned and faced his army. Thousands of men stared at him with wide eyes, some little more than boys, like their King himself.

“Men of Archenland!” he called out suddenly, surprising himself by the force behind his words. “Friends from Narnia!” He turned his horse, pacing before them between the cliffs on either side. The Talking Birds had perched on rocks above, looking down, hunched and ready for battle. In the distance, the hooves of Calormen rumbled. “Let the very mountains remember this day, at the edge of the Lion’s land. Even in the darkest of hours, the North is united!”

Peridan had followed suit, sitting tall upon the saddle, his keen eyes taking in the long lines of soldiers. As Cor fell silent, his voice rose and echoed between the cliffs. “Narnians, many of you remember the war that freed us from the Long Winter. Today, may our strength reminds us of that victory, and secure it for us once more.”

A heartfelt cry rose up among the soldiers, and rang between the mountains. And for a moment, Cor thought that even if their numbers fell short, perhaps the force of their voices might strike fear in the hearts of the enemy.  

From the stillness of the desert, the sound of the Calormene army rumbled, armor glinting in the sunlight. At his side, Peridan smiled a smile that did not quite reach the sadness in his eyes.

“Well, my friend,” he said quietly. “For Narnia and for Archenland, one last time.”

Cor looked at Peridan, then at Corin. Words would never be enough. But he filled his lungs with the air of the North, and let out a cry. “ _Come forth, people of the North!_ ” King Col the Builder’s words, and as he had weeks ago, on the day of his coronation. “For here we have built our kingdom, and we will defend it! For Aslan and the North!”

With a cry, the army sprang forwards.

…

When the cavalry had assembled, and the provinces scrambled to move their troops forward, Aravis deemed it time to advance. It was as if she were going to war with two armies at once – the barbarians, just beyond the mountains, and the traitors at her back. To grip the hilt of her sword as she rode, then, was both a comfort to herself and a threat to her own people.

Kidrash Tarkaan had gone before her, likely placing himself between her and Fareez Tarkaan, although it was not likely that Tehishbaan would strike at her before the confusion of battle could hide the evidence. The sight of her father leaving to protect her – indeed, the sight of her father at all – was repulsive to Aravis; had she not rejected his relation to her? And yet here she was, resorting to his influence, as any petty-minded daughter might do.

Even now, it seemed, she relied on the mercy of men.

The House banners swayed slightly in the still air, looking dead when bereft of the violent desert wind. The land was strange today; perhaps it was their proximity to the mountains. _Perhaps_ , whispered the men amongst each other, _the barbarians have already spoken their curse._ But the strangeness of the weather was hardly something to linger on; war was the more pressing matter at hand.

As they passed line after line of soldiers, battalions having taken position on the hardened sand beyond the encampment, Aravis kept her eyes on the mountains ahead. She did not wish to look at a soldier and see a Tarkaan of Tehishbaan, Zalindreh or Teebeth stare back. Whether out of superstition or strategy, Azrooh’s refusal to attack at night had resulted in Chlamash’s murder. She did not know who could be trusted.

The young Head of the Guard was close at her back as they approached the front of the company, but Aravis found no comfort in his presence. The Grand Vizier followed, gripping his reins in his eternal anxiety. When they reached the end of the lines of soldiers, and all Aravis could see to her sides was the long stretch of the desert and the limp banners of the Tarkaan Houses of Calormen, she turned to stand before them all.

“Tisroc.”

She turned her head to see Khalid a small distance away, seated comfortably in his saddle, his expression unreadable. He glanced from her to the new Head of the Guard. Chlamash’s absence was like a blackened hole.

“The order was issued quite swiftly,” he said in a low voice. “Is there a reason I was not invited to council? Perhaps the Tisroc, may she live forever, forgets that she put me in command of her army.”

His eyes gleamed, and in a flash Aravis saw Rabadash’s dark gaze in them; a sharpened dagger aimed to cause as much pain as it could. Rage blossomed in her chest.

“I will keep you as far away from me as possible,” she said through gritted teeth. “I will not store my poison with my wine.”

She rode away before she could see his expression. Rabadash was dead, she reminded herself. And they would all be dead soon enough, in one way or another.

Khalid could pretend that he did not know, but she was tired of petty veiled threats. Her anger was too great. For the first time, she saw the sense in what Ishamiel had said: these men would only recognize authority if it came with cruelty. If she must execute them all after the battle, she would do so. Once she did not need her soldiers’ loyalty, she would cleanse Calormen of their toxic manipulations.

Calormen’s fruits had flourished from bloodshed. To survive, they required constant watering.

The army was deadly still as she rode forwards, the bells and barding her horse had been dressed in clinking with a merriment that bordered on the sarcastic. The fabric around her head was thrown back, her face visible to the crowd.

The expressions of the ten thousand men that had ridden with her from Tashbaan were mostly obscured, but there was a strange tension in the air that had nothing to do with excitement. War might be what the Calormenes did best, but superstition ran equally strong, and despite the greed that had brought them there, the fear of barbarian magic still kept the men shivering. _No_ _Tisroc survives an encounter with the North._

_But Tash was on her side, and would lift her to victory, as he had done in the Temple at the Midsummer Offering._ Aravis thought of Ishamiel, still seated at the Palace in a rank he had never aspired to; of Lasaraleen’s children. Of the little girls that had watched from the windows of Tashbaan as the army rode by, marveling at what a girl from Calavar had achieved.

_She had not come here out of fate’s odd mistake; she had fought at every turn to lead this army. She was Tisroc of Calormen._ She could not yield now.

“Men of Calormen,” Aravis called out, and in the muted desert her voice seemed to echo strangely, as if it were the voice of another. “Now comes our chance at victory, and at vengeance. Together, we wept at the loss of our Tisroc to the Northern Curse, and together we have loathed the dark sorcery that birthed such treachery. Today, we shall be delivered. Today, we shall conquer the barbarian lands, and a river of riches shall flow to our Empire!”

The men cheered, their fear lifting. At last, the barbarian lands would belong to Calormen; ten thousand men were nigh invincible, a force that could conquer Archenland and beyond, and the sight of the soldiers standing in serried lines for as far as the eye could see would strike fear in the heart of any man. Aravis banished her misgivings from her mind and turned back towards the mountains, tensing to urge her horse forwards.

But as she did so, she froze. The desert was quiet and still, almost eerily so, but where the mountain line faded into nothingness, the horizon seemed strangely blurred, as if a heavy mist had fallen over the sand.

The sight of it sent a shiver down Aravis’ spine. Behind her, the cheer faded, and the Tarkaans looked at each other with worry.

Farrokh Tarkaan of Azim Balda rode forwards suddenly, the bells on his horse jingling loudly, soldiers parting before him to give way. The tip of his helm beneath his turban glinted brightly in the morning light, but he seemed distressed as he came closer, until he stood within the circle of the Guard.

 “O Tisroc—” he exclaimed, eyes wide with alarm. “This is a sandstorm.”

A chill fell over Aravis’ heart. As if Farrokh’s very words had signaled something to the air, a sudden wind from the West blew through the army, hard and relentless. Already, the mist—which Aravis suddenly realized must be sand—seemed much closer than it had first looked.

“What must we do?” she asked hurriedly.

“It looks too large to withstand as we are. It will tear through the encampment.”

“But panic is equally dangerous,” said Kidrash Tarkaan suddenly. Aravis had not noticed him nearby. “There is nothing to be done but ride for the pass, where the rocks are high enough to shield us. We may reach shelter yet.”

But Aravis knew that they could not possibly reach the mountains on time—certainly not the entire army of ten thousand. They were trapped between the wind and the harsh nothingness of the desert. And to be crushed between the wind and hard rock…

The cloud of sand was now so large that she could not see much more beyond Mount Pire itself.

_Tash_ , the wind seemed to whisper around them, and the same word came from the lips of the soldiers as they tightened the helms on their heads, as they pulled fabric over their noses. _Tash speaks through the desert._

She seized the reins. “Then we ride. _Now_.”

She set off at a gallop without another word, and for a moment it seemed that she would ride alone. Only the noise of the wind whipped at her veil, sand particles rising and scratching at her hands. But then she heard a low rumble behind her – the sound of thousands of horses, of thousands of feet, beginning a desperate race across the last stretch of the desert, towards shelter – and towards the enemy.

.

_Tash_. The whispers of the wind rose to a howl, and Aravis’ horse let out a cry of alarm as a thick layer of sand blew past them, making Aravis flinch and turn her head away even as she lay bowed over the saddle. _Tash_ , it seemed to cry. The stories of the gods tearing through air and land seemed suddenly, mercilessly real.

Ahead, the gap between the cliffs rose almost to the sky. Imposing as they were, all Aravis could think of was the strong barrier the rock walls would be from the crushing wind. The skin of her hands already felt raw from the friction of whirling sand. Behind her, the banners of the Houses of Calormen and the larger banner of Tash shivered violently in the wind, as if fighting to fly away.

Aravis gripped the reins as tightly as she could and tangled her fingers in the horse’s braided mane. With the other, she pulled the veil tightly around her face, but it was no use—the sand was relentless. Behind her, she heard men shout. She did not dare look to the West. She knew already that they were too late. The sandstorm was upon them.

The dark walls of the cliffs were closer—so close that she thought it would take mere seconds for them to cross. But near the rocks, the wind was more violent, hissing and roaring in her ears. For an instant, she thought she heard a lion, like the one in her dreams. Perhaps the magic of the barbarians had come to take her at last.

In the gap ahead, even through the yellowish air, she could barely make out a winding path of rocks and dry grass. Further away, she thought she glimpsed a flash of red.

The barbarian army.

Could they hear her? She could still hear the pounding of hooves behind her, but when she looked back, it was all a haze. Only the Guard and a few shields of Calavar still glimmered in the scarce light. But the men were crying out; if they were war cries, or cries of terror, Aravis could not tell.

She forced herself to sit upright, even when the wind threatened to knock her back down. The men were still behind her—this was still war, though the gods had now joined the fray. Reaching to her side, she unsheathed her sword and raised it in the air, cutting through the sand-filled wind.

_“In the name of Tash, the inexorable, the indomitable!_ ” she cried, and the sound of it rang through the pass that was nearly upon her.

She thought she heard the answering call of many behind her, but then the wind became too loud, and she nearly choked on sand. Another gust of wind hit them, so powerful that Aravis feared it might push her off her horse, and her steed neighed loudly.

When she opened her eyes, she could no longer see the pass.

But from ahead came a sound that was unmistakable. Even with terror on all sides, the sound of it sent a thrill of fear through her bones. It was an army’s war cry. And the sound of hooves, riding towards them from the North.

But before she could so much as raise her sword again, the storm was upon them. Her horse screamed, and she turned her head to see, out of a vortex of brown, the army behind her pulled back and then pushed forwards, sending horses flying into the sand, men soaring through the air as if by magic, crashing against the cliffs with terrible screams. In the distance, the chariots of Teebeth shrieked, their parts coming loose in the vortex—metal flying in the air alongside the once colorful banners, which like ragged kites flew in circles above the screaming army—flew towards Aravis—

She felt the ground under her suddenly, and the air left her lungs. The world was a swirl of sand, lodging itself in her mouth, in her nostrils, in her eyes. Her mind was spinning.

Her horse was shrieking somewhere behind her, and she was no longer upon it. The cries of the soldiers were choked by the rush of the wind. She heard something whizz through the air, too large to be an arrow, and before it even hit her she knew—

The air suddenly cleared before her, a thin path, as if the eye of the storm were directly over her. She was able to open her eyes, knuckles digging into the dirt, able to push herself up onto her knees. Her sword was somewhere near, somewhere… ahead, the sand was filled with shadows…

She looked up to see a stallion directly in front of her, mid-turn in hasty retreat, coated in red and silver: a war horse. Had she still been riding, she may have almost been upon him. On its back was a tall rider in full armor, head uncovered as if the wind had torn his helm from him, bowed over his horse as they escaped the storm. His skin was fair and his hair was golden and it glinted in the light, gold like the hair of a fisherman’s boy in a distant shore...

Aravis pushed herself off the ground with renewed vigor, but suddenly the sound grew louder, and part of a Teebeth chariot, a wheel turned projectile in the storm, flew through the air and collided with her shoulders, spinning and slicing—

A horse, somewhere in the distance, let out a terrible scream.

Ahead, the rider turned, eyes wide.

And as if in a dream, mid-gallop, he slipped his boots from the stirrups, slid both legs over the left side, and jumped. And Aravis saw, even as the storm whisked away the wheel as quickly as it had brought it, the rider’s own confusion in his blue eyes as he ran back towards her, through the sand, bridging the gap between them, his steed long lost into the distance.

Then the pain hit her; red-hot, burning pain. But it was not new pain: it was the same pain that had haunted her dreams for so long, that had torn her back open and made her bleed, finally made visible. Aravis could almost imagine that the lion had only just turned and run away.

Gasping, she fell back, and she could feel blood pooling through her ripped armor, could feel herself shudder from the pain of it. The sand was hard and unforgiving, the air still yellow-brown, still muting the cries of anything further away. But the Northern rider crouched at her side and caught her before she touched the ground, and his eyes were blue, blue like the waters of the Winding Arrow, like they had been when she had met him in another lifetime, two children fleeing lions through the water, blue like the waters of a fisherman’s beach in a Calormene village…

She reached for his arm and gripped it, even as her body lost its strength.

“ _Shasta_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...let me know what you think?   
>  Thanks for reading!


	12. Chapter 12

“ _Fall back!”_

Cor felt his heartbeat come to a stop.

A few seconds ago, he had been aware of the scorching wind, the pain of sand particles colliding with his skin, the overwhelming terror of an oncoming army that threatened utter destruction along with the inexplicable ruthlessness of nature.

Not now, however.

Now, kneeling in the sand, all he felt was the pounding of his own blood in his veins, and warm wetness of another’s blood seeping through foreign armor, through his gloves and down his wrists—

The woman in his arms was Aravis. He recognized her as if he had known her his whole life; the dark curtain of her hair, mostly hidden under some thin, ragged fabric; the slender lines of her body, even below the armor; her cheekbones, and the bright gleam of recognition in those dark eyes—

_Shasta._

She had known him as no one else in the world knew him. And he had reacted to the word with as much primal ownership as if she had called him Cor.

The wind still swirled around them, but although he couldn’t quite catch his breath, it had nothing to do with the storm. Aravis’ eyes were closed now, and the blood he felt on his skin suddenly frightened him to the bones. He pulled her closer, knees and boots digging into dunes of sand—and oh, but she felt so familiar, as if every inch they drew closer brought him nearer to where he was meant to be, a wonderful, terrible, _terrifying_ feeling—

He fumbled, pulling off his gloves, pressing his chin to her shoulder, her armor digging into his skin. Something had sliced through the metal and leather at her back, more powerful than a mere sword. But though he felt the blood, even through the haze of dust and his own emotions, he could tell that she was not dead. It was a terrible wound, yes, but it had not reached her spine or grazed the bone.

Cor pressed his palms tightly against her back, hoping to stop the blood. The grooves and carvings of her armor dug peculiar patterns against his hands; in some distant part of his mind, he knew that there was something he ought to be noticing—something important—but she was Aravis, she was Aravis and she was _real_ , and she was _alive_ , and if the wind only stilled a little more he might feel the swell of her lungs against his and tell her, maybe, that at last they were reunited, in this strange mirror reality of the land of their dreams…

_“Fall back! Fall back! Where is the King?”_

The sound of voices brought him back to his senses, half-buried in the sand, clutching Aravis as if she were a lifeline. But he was not Shasta here. He was King Cor, son of Lune, and that was Corin’s voice, calling through the settling dust.

The storm had stopped.

In the newfound quiet, he felt Aravis shudder with a new breath. And in the distance, galloping horses.

What would his men say, if they were to find their King like this, clutching an injured Calormene woman on a battlefield?

He was not Shasta here.

And if the woman he called Aravis was indeed named Aravis at all – she was on the edge of Northern territory, and in terrible danger.

Again, his mind prodded him. He was missing something. He pulled away, watching her eyelids flutter under the sand-encrusted veil, looked down at the richly carved sheath that hung from her waist, nearly buried in the sand—

“Cor! _Cor!_ ”

Behind her, the air had cleared somewhat, and he saw skeletal shadows rising shakily in the foreground, like ghosts. Her people would come for her, he told himself. And they would not want to find him with her.

Neither should his own men.

And so, feeling as if he were leaving a limb upon the battlefield, he left her there, half-lying, half-kneeling in the sand, her eyes still closed. _Aravis_. Gritting his teeth against the onslaught of the memories which had now been made real, he got on his feet and ran back towards his army as fast as he could bear, forcing himself to not look back.

When he found Corin, his twin nearly crashed into him, eyes half-mad with anxiety. Of course Corin could not fall back, not now. Corin’s sword was drawn, his other hand curled, as if ready to fight any enemy both with the sword and the fist. When he saw Cor, it took him a moment to comprehend what he was seeing.

Then, with an almighty sigh of relief, he clutched at Cor’s shoulder and drew him in for an embrace. “By the _Lion_ , Cor, don’t _ever—_ ” he let out a furious curse, and Cor can feel him shaking. “They thought—I thought—wait, what’s this? Are you hurt?”

Cor blinked, looking down at what Corin was seeing. And of course, his hands were stained with blood, and just the sight of it sent a shiver down his spine, as if some of whatever magic had brought his dreams to life had remained. She was _real_.

“It’s not mine,” he finally said, perhaps rather jerkily, and closed his hands into fists.

Corin opened his mouth to reply, but then there was a sound of hooves and Dar appeared, helm in hand, his expression more strained with worry than Cor had ever seen it.

“Sire!” he said upon seeing the King, and some of that worry faded, though it did not disappear. “We must move back and close off the valley.”

 _He was not Shasta here_. He was King, and there were matters to be tended to. He dared, suddenly, to look back—the pass was a wasteland clouded with dust, the tall cliffs dark shadows on both sides. He could not see Aravis, and neither could he see the army.

“Set up a barricade,” he told Dar. “We lost ground in the storm—it’ll be harder to hold them off now.”

“How many are left, do you think?” Corin’s eyes were fixed on the haze behind him.

Cor merely shook his head, but Dar’s brow was deeply furrowed. “Still too many,” he said, and with a short nod rode back ahead of them.

As they trudged quickly towards the encampment, Corin’s hand was fixed on his arm, pulling him ahead in a decidedly inelegant manner, but Cor didn’t dare protest. There was something very focused in his brother’s eyes; something that reminded him all too much of Corin’s attitude as they had held off the Calormenes the first time, in Anvard. It was all energy, pushing back against emotion.

“Did we lose men?” Cor said, slightly short of breath. His hands were still clenched into fists.

“None as of yet,” Corin replied, but what Cor could see of his expression was dark—darker than it ought to be, even considering the circumstances. There was something he was missing.

Behind him, he could still feel Aravis’ presence. He forced himself not to look back again on instinct. “Did something happen?”

Ahead, Cor could see the outlines of the tents, covered in a heavy layer of dust. Horses and men and dwarves were moving, dark silhouettes hurrying back and forth. Dar had likely already set them to the task of building the barrier.

Corin glanced at him. Again, the look in his eyes was foreboding. “Peridan’s been shot.”

.

The King of Narnia had been swiftly moved to a tent, and Cor could hardly bear the somber look in the eyes of the Narnian guards outside. Their kingdom had lost too many rulers all at once already. If Peridan, _now_ , were to meet his end as well—

But when they passed through the opening, they found Peridan sitting in his cot, ashen-faced and weak, but indisputably alive. A faun was tending to a bleeding wound in his left shoulder, nearly at the clavicle. A few inches down, and the arrow would have driven through his heart.

Cor let out a breath when Peridan gave him a weak grin. “You’ve given us quite a fright.”

“My apologies,” Peridan replied, eyes closed. “It does seem terribly fateful that in a battle where there was no clash of armies, I still somehow emerge wounded.”

“His Majesty has lost a lot of blood,” the faun said gently, not looking at any of them, but Cor did not miss how pointed his tone was.

“We will leave you to rest,” Cor said immediately, then looked to the faun. “Anything you need, my people will provide.”

The faun bowed, although Cor knew that the Narnians needed little from Archenland when it came to weaving their healing magic around the ailing. If the fauns had faith in Peridan’s improvement now, he had nothing to worry about.

Peridan shifted slightly, and his eyes opened with what seemed to be extreme effort. But his gaze was burning. “Cor,” he said, formalities disappearing suddenly between them. “The time to strike is now, while they are yet weakened. It pains me not to ride with you—but my people will follow you; Narnia is in your hands.”

The words settled heavily on Cor, but he merely nodded as Peridan’s eyes closed once more, and the King of Narnia fell into a deep sleep. It was good, he thought, that it was only he and Corin and the healer who were there to hear. Were such words to fall upon the wrong ears—

He turned away. Corin was staring at the wound on Peridan’s shoulder with strange intensity, and when Cor made a gesture to leave, he saw that his twin’s expression had suddenly contorted into something like rage.

“Come,” Cor told him in a low voice, and Corin followed him out of the tent. But as soon as they were outside and out of earshot, Corin turned to him, voice low and hurried.

 “I was next to Peridan when he was shot. That arrow—” Corin hesitated. “The angle was wrong.”

Cor frowned. “What?”

“Peridan was turning to fall back. The arrow hit him square on the shoulder, almost directly; I just realized—” his voice was shaking. “It could not have come from the Calormen archers, unless they had people hidden in—”

“The cliffs.” The full horror of the truth fell on Cor. “We put archers in the cliffs.” He looked at Corin, and saw his own feelings reflected in them. “Hawken’s men.”

The world seemed to spin. All around him, soldiers passed, brushing sand off their armor and calming frightened horses. The ground was a mess of trampled dirt, and the wind still persisted – no longer cruel, but still there, whispering threateningly. Standing with only Corin at his side, Cor felt like a stranger in a foreign place.

Corin’s voice reached his ears, low and full of rage. “Where exactly were they positioned?”

“The Western cliff,” Cor said hollowly. “But the storm—they might not have—”

“I don’t care.” There was a hiss of cold metal, and Cor started. Corin had drawn his sword, fire in his eyes, his sword flashing in the emerging sunlight. “I’ll hunt the traitors down myself.”

But he stood there, and did not move, and suddenly Cor understood that even through his rage, Corin was waiting for the King’s orders to leave.

Cor’s hesitation lasted only a moment. He nodded, and watched his brother run off. Seconds later, a company of riders passed by, Corin’s sword drawn as they rode deep into the mountains.

Standing alone in the center of the camp, Cor’s fury turned to guilt. He himself had given way to Peridan’s would-be-assassins. He had been a fool; so trusting of the certainty of Calormen’s incoming destruction that he had not gauged just how high passions ran in his own ranks. How could he now face Narnia’s King?

_Narnia is in your hands._

A shiver ran through him, and he swayed where he stood, feeling the blood drain from his face. In the flurry of the retreating army, it seemed that no one noticed him, a foolish boy playing the part of a King—

His hands were still covered in dried blood. _Her_ blood.

Who _was_ she?

…

Aravis was burning.

She had known, of course, what this pain would feel like—she had felt it before, in her dreams, and yet again when she awoke. But it was very real now, and with it came a very tangible weakness that seemed to pull her downwards, into the deep earth, the heavy weight of the sand dragging her to unknown depths, towards the very heart of Tash—

Somewhere in the back of her mind, she was able to register relief. At least now, the pain was real, and it was behind her. The demon had cut her open and had his revenge, and she was here, dying on the battlefield—and Shasta had been here too.

Shasta had been here too.

Aravis was lying on the sand, particles digging into her cheek. She could not feel her legs; surely they were crushed under the weight of the storm. Vaguely, she knew she was bleeding; but she could not feel the blood itself, only the burn of the cuts and the shudder of every breath she took.

But Shasta had been here; and he was _real_ , she knew he was. Shasta, come to save her from the lion, like in her dream—Shasta, with the blue eyes and the golden hair, now a man clad in armor—

Something in her mind prodded her almost painfully; a realization awaiting to be noticed. But she could not muster the energy to think it through. The ground was pulling her downwards, and in the distance, shadows seemed to lift from the sands—demons ready to carry her off to where the gods awaited—

With a jolt, she realized that she knew them. There was Khalid Tarkaan, sand falling in waves from his armor as he staggered forwards—a jerky, yet decided gait. Behind him, the other shadows were soldiers, emerging from the wreck of the army like ghosts. They were not dead, Aravis realized. They were not dead.

But Khalid was ahead of them, advancing directly towards her. His eyes met hers, and with a jolt Aravis realized that she was not dead either. She was alive, if immobilized, and in his hand Khalid held a long dagger, glinting in the sunlight that filtered through the haze—

This was not how it was meant to end, with the Tisroc slaughtered on the battlefield while others agonized. She ought to have been rid of Khalid long ago, before making him captain, before he could kill Chlamash and take Calormen from the hands of his brother’s _whore_ —

Khalid’s eyes were focused with fierce determination, and as the wind decreased, so did the stagger in his footsteps. He was advancing too fast for her. She desperately tried to move her legs, but it was as if her body had been sent into a deep sleep, and she could only watch in terror.

But he was not looking at her, she realized suddenly. He stopped short of reaching her, a few feet away near a dune, and Aravis finally saw what was there—the prostrate body of Fareez Tarkaan, trapped at the waist under the weight of sand and a chariot, but very much alive.

Fareez did not see Khalid. Indeed, Khalid moved much too quickly for so much as a cry to escape Fareez’s throat. With a swift movement, he knelt, and pulling the Tarkaan’s head up by the hair slit the man’s throat with his dagger.

Blood spurted out on the sand, puddling and then disappearing into the ground. It spurted over Khalid’s hands, but he rubbed sand on them and it was gone. And then Khalid was standing, leaving Fareez’s body behind him, and sprinting towards where Aravis lay, still shocked into stillness.

She felt hands seize her by the arms and she was suddenly being pulled upwards. It burned, terribly so, but she was finally upright, an arm at her waist pushing painfully against the cuts on her back. But her world was not slanted anymore, and she felt Khalid’s breath against the top of her head as he held her steady.

“Will you _keep me with your wine_ , now, Tisroc?” he said roughly. Aravis stifled a gasp of pain. “I swore my allegiance to you; an oath I do not take lightly—much less to side with the likes of Tehishbaan.”

Her head was swimming. She could not muster a whole sentence, not with her back screaming as it was, and her own throat aching to scream along with it. But Khalid’s arm was firm under her, if ungentle.

Perhaps he enjoyed that she could not speak a word, and perhaps if she had not been weakened by blood loss she would have hated him for it. Instead, all she could do was allow him to begin a staggering pace back towards wherever their camp had once been.

She was hastily hauled onto a horse—some soldier assisting Khalid in the task, only to disappear quickly behind them as Khalid set the horse to a gallop, dodging piles of metal and sand, and clumps of groaning soldiers. Aravis kept her head down, nearly in the horse’s mane, both out of exhaustion and to remain hidden. It was likely in vain, but she couldn’t bear the thought of being seen like this, a child crumpled over the saddle between Khalid’s arms.

She must have lost consciousness, because when she next opened her eyes—had she even closed them? —she was lying face-first on a rug, one arm outstretched, fingers dragging in the sand. Her back hurt too much to turn over, but she was in a tent— _her_ tent, she realized—and Khalid was throwing his gloves to a side, a box in his hand, a waterskin at his side. There was a lot of commotion all around them, just beyond the walls of the tent, but no one came inside. Perhaps they did not know that she was there.

Khalid walked over to her. He moved jerkily, she realized. He was injured as well, though not nearly as badly.

But all questions left her mind when he suddenly knelt before her and nimbly began undoing the straps of her armor. Aravis let out a cry that was too hoarse to be heard, feeling the hauberk leave her, his hands reaching around her waist to pull the coverings from her. Her back was burning and Khalid’s eyes were black like Rabadash’s, tearing off her clothes—

His hands stilled.

She felt like one of the mad horses she’d seen as a child in Calavar, foaming at the mouth, eyes red and rolling, their hooves striking out at anything that came near. Perhaps Khalid had seen the same thing in her eyes. He was staring at her, his gaze hard and unmoving, and it was not Rabadash that she saw there.

So she drew in a shuddering breath, grit her teeth and pressed her forehead upon the rug, and let the humiliation wash over her, wave upon wave, as the armor and wraps beneath were removed and her back was exposed to the air, goosebumps of terror betraying the tranquility Khalid already knew she lacked. Briefly, she wondered how much Khalid knew of his dead brother and his wives; what he guessed, and what he condoned.

But the white-hot agony of water being poured over her wounds drove all thoughts away.

Khalid was a quick, if brutal physician. He worked like a soldier, dressing the wounds just as much as was necessary for them to hold in another round of battle, with little decorum. But that was what Aravis needed, she supposed—that was all she could do. She would not allow herself to cry before him, but let her tears be absorbed by the rug before her, knuckles clenched so tightly she felt as if they would never loosen again.

After what seemed like ages, he was finished cleaning her wounds. He said nothing and did not look at her as she pushed herself off from the rug and she held the bandages against her chest while he wound them around her. Still in full armor, he towered behind her, and Aravis had to dig her boots into the sand to remind herself that there was no time for fear.

She dressed as hastily as she could, her back stiff with pain, but left the armor on the carpet before her. It had been sliced through with ten long lashes; the same pattern that was currently on her back, just as her dreams had predicted.

In the opposite corner of the tent, Khalid washed his hands, and then the outside of his gloves, with the rest of the waterskin’s contents, drops of reddened liquid splashing onto the sand. He did not look at her. She wondered how much of the blood was hers and how much was Fareez’s.

He lifted his gaze and their eyes met. He must have seen what she was looking at, because he straightened and answered the question she could not bring herself to ask.

“He will have died in the storm, neck slashed by some projectile. And Tehishbaan will be appeased.”

She nodded. In her mind’s eye, she could still see his knife slash through Fareez’s neck. She had hoped Khalid would be loyal when she named him, but she had not imagined the extent that loyalty might carry him to. “How many survived, do you think?”

Khalid glanced at the flap of the tent, outside of which the cries of men were clearly audible. “Too many.”

.

The armor had held as well as armor could against the strength of a chariot wheel and the force of the storm. The slashes in the metal could be covered with a carefully-arranged veil. The sharp edges, she had dulled herself against a rock, gritting her teeth against the pain the movement caused.

She was not able to move much, or bend at the waist, but there would be no need to do so. It would have to be enough.

The camp had been ripped to shreds. Most of it still looked like a graveyard, the splintered tentpoles with rags clinging to them resembling strange monuments to the dead. Men walked with quiet caution, as if they feared to upset the ground beneath them and receive punishment again. Aravis heard more than one prayer murmured under someone’s breath as they worked to put together some semblance of an encampment. In the distance, assemblies of men on horseback dragged back what had been thrown far by the wind: chariots, and supplies, and the injured. Not one banner could be seen aloft. She wondered if the storm had destroyed them all.

The remaining Tarkaans stood in a nervous circle in one of the few tents left intact, their armor and turbans encrusted with sand, their faces ashen. They seemed to jump as she entered, skittish as they were.

Lightheaded from exertion, Aravis resisted the urge to lean against one of the tentpoles, and dug the heels of her boots into the sand. She _must_ stand.

“I see that some are missing,” she said, without preamble, looking around the circle. Fareez’s absence was almost more noticeable than his presence might have been.

Azrooh Tarkaan sniffed anxiously. It was uncommon to see a Calormene man disturbed by death in battle. But this, Aravis supposed, was something much different.

“—Ripped away from us by Tash himself,” muttered Farrokh. All eyes turned to him, and realizing that his words had been heard, he swallowed. “I saw my cousin snatched from his horse with my own eyes. They found him nearly an hour’s walk away, alive, but unconscious.”

“Yet more fortunate than Fareez,” said Corradin, sounding subdued.

Glances were exchanged, and moved towards Aravis. She ignored them. Let them suspect. A slashed throat might very well be the result of a wheel like the one that had injured Aravis, or a barbarian soldier that had managed to reach the frontlines, but that was far from the most likely possibility, and they knew it.

The Tarkaans were not fools. One by one, they looked away.

“Chlamash Tarkaan is also lost to us,” Aravis told them. The juxtaposition of Fareez and Chlamash’s deaths, she hoped, would not go unnoticed. Fury still burned within her at the memory of the sight of his body—at the brutal way in which he had been executed. Fareez might have paid, but his allies still stood around her.

“What a fell day is upon us,” said Farrokh Tarkaan, looking down at the jewels that still decorated his hands, now covered in a layer of sand that would take more than water to wash off.

It was Khalid who spoke up before the silence was allowed to settle. “Mercifully, we still have an army, although we might have five hundred injured.”

“Good,” Aravis replied. “All things considered, it hardly constitutes a dent in our numbers.”

The Tarkaans stared at her incredulously.

Ilgamuth let out a low, mirthless laugh. “Forgive me, Tisroc, may you live forever, but this cannot be considered an ordinary storm. Never, in all my years of battle for this great Empire, have I encountered such unnatural a disaster. Who is to say that the barbarians will not unleash another attack of dark magic?”

Was it Tash’s will or the dark arts of the Northerners? Aravis was not fooled by her own falsehood – the Northern Curse was no more real than the love she had professed to bear towards her husband. But she had heard Tash’s voice in the winds; indeed, had felt divine intervention deeper than the wound she had sustained when Shasta had held her in his arms—

She stilled her thoughts before they pulled her away from herself. “Whether it is dark magic or the will of the gods, we are not frail enough to cower before a threat when we are so close to our goal. You saw the barbarian army as well as I did. Demons or not, their forces cannot compare to ours.”

“Two of our own are dead, and another injured,” Azrooh exclaimed, glancing wildly at the men around him. “Are we to ignore the signs?”

“What signs, Azrooh?” Khalid snapped, glancing around the room. “Signs of treason?”

Azrooh balked. Perhaps to him, seemingly free of ties of loyalty to Fareez’s conspirators, the words sounded like an accusation. But to Corradin and Ilgamuth, their leader dead, the words were a threat of exposure.

“I would not dream of—” Azrooh stammered. He turned to Aravis, eyes downcast. “O Tisroc, you know I am obedient to my dying breath. But I was under the impression that, riding here in a body of ten thousand, that moment would not be nigh. The men have gone mad with fear; Tash’s desert has struck us down, and the barbarian demons await beyond the cliffs. How are we not to be afraid, when Rabadash Tisroc lost his life to his same fate?”

Aravis looked to the others. “Would you stand down?”

They looked at her, then to each other. Not one said anything. Only Kidrash and Khalid could hold her gaze.

Aravis let out a low laugh, and then dug her nails into her palms as pain shot down her back. “In whose company am I; the glorious fighters of Calormen, or a rabble of children? Do you so balk at the sight of dust that you would turn back, forsaking all chance of victory?”

“We are not cowards, O Tisroc,” Corradin said through clenched teeth.

“Then in Tash’s name do not quiver at the thought of the barbarians. If the storm is the will of Tash, then it has told us pause and gather our wits. If it was the witchcraft of the Northerners, then they failed—we are yet nine thousand five hundred strong. Is there not a prophecy among your poets, Kidrash?”

For the first time, her father spoke up, his expression impassive. “ _And a river of riches flowed Southwards, to rain upon Tash’s children_.”

“I did not come here to retreat at first blood. The gods placed me on the throne of Calormen and they will deliver me, as they did Ilsombreh Tisroc and Ardeeb Tisroc before me. We will regroup. We still have enough force to pose a threat to them.”

“What would you have us do?” Corradin demanded. “The men shiver in fear and the horses cannot be calmed.”

Aravis met his gaze. “Then you have yet some hours to gather your wits, Tarkaan. The storm has veered Eastwards; let us hope your courage has not followed suit.”

She turned and left the tent, her heart pounding in her chest as her back burned from her injuries. Walking was painful; breathing was painful. But Khalid had said they were not deep. The pain would fade soon.

It was only when she was some steps away that she realized her father had followed, stepping ahead of her Guard to join her.

“You were quiet,” she snapped, to hide her nervousness and the sweat that was gathering at her hairline because of the pain. “Are your riders also quivering in their saddles?”

Kidrash ignored the question. “There is yet another thing they fear, but will not mention to your face.”

“What is it?”

“That Tash has cursed the army that follows a woman.”

She was too tired to fully feel rage, but she had to quiet down the frustration that boiled within her, looking around them. The encampment was slowly taking shape, and the sun was high in the sky. Only now was she beginning to feel its heat pounding down on her once more. To the east, the horizon was blurred, the storm fading into the distance. She needed water.

“They will not believe me until they hold Archenland’s riches in their hands themselves.” She sighed, feeling her mouth parched.

She had not asked for Kidrash’s opinion, but as he was wont to do, he offered in anyway. “If it was Tash, then it was a warning,” Kidrash said as she gazed away from him. “Not about our ruler, but perhaps about our own cowardice. I would rather perish at the hands of the gods than by a barbarian sword. And this was not Northern Magic—I saw their golden-haired King ride first, even as his army was buffeted with the sands.” He turned to look thoughtfully at the mountains. “A fierce warrior he might be, but he is no conjurer.”

It was not until she was in her own tent that she felt the full blow of his words. Far beyond disappointment at the lack of faith of her army, it was the description of the King that had shaken her. Golden-haired, a fierce warrior… _and blue eyes_ , she knew already, without even having to ask. The rider who had led the army and been caught in the storm, forced to retreat—only to turn back once more to find Aravis crouching in the sand.

Like Hwin, he was alive. He was _real_.

Cor, the young King of Archenland. Shasta.

Her heart stuttered in her chest. What misguided choice had she made?

…

He needed to wash his hands.

Lost in the crowds of men rushing to and fro—their energy seemed renewed by the prospect of a barricade; it gave them something more to do that merely wait, and the semblance of an advantage—Cor found a barrel of dubiously murky water and a jug, placed outside a cluster of tents which he recognized belonged to the Archen smiths. Whether the water was meant for drinking or washing, or some other purpose, he didn’t know, but it would have to do. He plunged the jug into the barrel and poured water on his hands, scrubbing the dried blood off it, scrubbing his last evidence of Aravis’ existence from him.

It would not do to linger on thoughts of her just yet. Not when the ultimate treason had just been committed, and he had a decision to make.

Even as he stood stock still, wet hands open in the air before him, as if being still might hide him from the view of others, he distinctly heard laughter nearby. Hearty laughter, too—not the sort one would expect to find in a doomed army camp.

He rubbed some of the water on his face, for good measure, trying to ignore the metallic smell of it, which likely wasn’t just the blood. He followed the sound, perhaps because the weight of standing there, the fury and terror raging inside him, was threatening to knock him over.

It was a white Archen tent, yes, but beside it was a smith’s hastily-built forge, men still at work on lances and fixing armor that must have been damaged by the storm. Cor caught sight of a pile of unused arrow-tips, and felt rage stir within him again.

But before the tent now stood a Dwarf, pulling a pony laden with bundles, grinning widely as a small group of Archen smiths, aprons stained black, crowded around, chattering amongst themselves. Two more Black Dwarves were also there, reaching to uncover the bundles, _ooh_ ing and _aah_ ing to themselves at what they discovered.

It was a peculiar sight, and Cor found himself walking over, reaching for the edge of one bundle and uncovering it. On the pony’s back was a shield, and an assortment of disconnected pieces of a suit, or several suits of armor—all distinctly Calormene.

When he looked up, he found the others staring at him with wide eyes.

The Archen smiths hastily bowed.

“Your Majesty,” one of them said, flushing slightly. The mirth had quickly left their expressions, although one of the Dwarves still had his hands upon the edge of a coat of armor, as if he feared it might be snatched away from him.

“What’s this?” Cor asked, frowning curiously.

The Dwarf who had brought in the pony seemed to force a smile. “Calormene armor, Your Majesty, found among the sands where the storm dispersed them. Most of it is hopelessly damaged, of course, but there’s quite a bit worth salvaging.”

“Salvaging? Isn’t Narnian armor far stronger than anything the Calormenes make?”

“Aye Sire,” said one of the smiths. “And so is ours as a result. Our steel is one of the main reasons they covet the North so badly.”

“Then what use have you for the armor?” Cor looked down at a breastplate, ran his fingers over the faded golden lines on its edge. It was not as beautiful as the one Aravis had been wearing, he realized. It must have merely been a footsoldier’s armor.

His own realization hit him with unexpected force. In his mind’s eye, he could see her again, the rich engravings on her armor, the exquisite fabric of the ragged veil that had covered her hair. Even the blood and the sand could not mask rank—the significance of the first person to ride at the head of the army—

“Sire, are you all right?”

He looked up quickly, and found the men and Dwarves staring at him with some concern. He realized, abruptly, that in his thoughtlessness he must be scaring them. There was likely a perfectly sensible explanation for what they were doing—it was his own nerves, his own sense of betrayal at Peridan’s injury, that was affecting his actions.

“Forgive me, friends,” he said quickly. “Perhaps I am being overly inquisitive.”

“Not at all, Your Majesty, not at all,” said a smith hastily, although Cor noticed some relief on his features.

“It’s this, here—See,” the Dwarf holding the coat of mail waved at him closer, pointing towards the shield rather unscrupulously, but his carelessness was clearly born out of excitement. “It’s in the engravings, Your Majesty; a technique no one North of the desert has been able to perfect. Look how smooth the grooves are, how exquisitely permanent the picture!”

And it was, Cor realized, looking down at the shield. The demonic figure of Tash was carved there with such care that every talon could be perfectly made out, the circle of the eye so carefully drawn that it rivalled any such illustration Cor had ever seen on Archenland’s own armor. Not that there was much need for care when engraving Archenland’s cross upon shields or breastplates—but there was no doubt that this was of superior artistry.

He looked up, between the human smiths and the Narnians. “Have you all known each other long?”

“For years, Your Highness,” said one of the men, with a smile. “We’ve travelled back and forth, now and then, improving our skills in one thing or another. It’s a terrible situation that brings us together this time, of course—but even in war there is some hope.”

“A chance to learn!” exclaimed one of the Dwarves, perhaps overenthusiastically. But he was a true artist, Cor could tell—truly invested in learning what made the armor so beautiful, and how he could mimic such art himself.

“A peculiar time to learn, I must say.”

“It is in the direst moments that the most is learnt,” said one of the humans. “The first bridge in Archenland was constructed to solve a disagreement between two Lords.”

“Really?” Cor did his best to smile. “Well, don’t let me interrupt you.”

If only such a simple solution could exist between Narnia and Archenland—between Archenland and Calormen. He looked up at the men around him, who, realizing that the King was more concerned with his thoughts, were beginning to unpack the bundles the Dwarf had brought, examining each piece of armor with fascinated care.

How interesting, that such an alliance could have been forged between the peoples of two different cultures. It was natural for royals to mix, of course—diplomacy demanded it—but for the people themselves to establish friendships, mutually sharing their knowledge… knowledge which may very well have affected the quality of the armor and weapons Cor wore.

He looked up at the mountains, where the cliffs loomed sinisterly. So much was at stake.

As if on cue, he heard galloping hooves approaching. Leaving the smiths behind to their work, he strode through the camp towards the noise.

At the foot of the hill stood Corin, sweating and furious, as he pulled two men from the saddle of an empty horse. They were tied at the wrists, and the bruises on their faces indicated that Corin hadn’t been able to help himself. The soldiers around them dismounted, closing in, a restless circle around the men, who had fallen to their knees.

“Where’s the third one?” Cor demanded.

“They say he fell of the cliff with the winds,” Corin said. “There’s no telling if that’s true—but I don’t think he could have escaped us.”

The commotion attracted people’s attention, and other men were beginning to draw near, looking curious and concerned. Dar appeared among them, face stern, his hand on the hilt of his sword. Perhaps he too had guessed the nature of Peridan’s wound.

Lord Hawken arrived, pushing through the gathering crowd. His eyes widened as he looked from the men to Cor.

“These are my men, Sire. Allow me to discipline them—”

“I am aware that they are yours,” Cor said darkly.

The man seemed to freeze where he stood. He could confess now, but Cor knew he would not. They both knew that he had been caught, and that he was at the King’s mercy.

Lord Hawken stepped back.

Cor glanced around. There were no Narnians there yet—only humans hovered curiously about. Over their heads, the united banners of Narnia and Archenland fluttered in the wind, marking the spot where Peridan yet lay some tents away, ailing.

His heart was pounding, but when he spoke his voice seemed dangerously calm. “I had thought,” Cor began, coming to stand before the culprits, who shook as they knelt. “That treachery was a trait reserved for Rabadash and his two hundred men, as they slaughtered our people in Anvard and murdered my father. I had thought that that was the last of treachery we would see in these lands. And yet,” he finished quietly. “Men from Archenland.”

One of the men looked up. It was the same one who had spoken to Cor on the battlefield, Mildor, tricking the King into giving them orders. He was shaking and sweating, now, but his eyes burned with determination bordering on madness. “We did it for our people.”

“You did it out of _greed,_ ” Cor snapped. “And for leaders too cowardly to face justice themselves.”

He resisted the urge to glance at specific men. There would be no use in pointing them out, not when he had a chance to make his point clear without disrupting the order of his army. What would his father have done, had he been in this situation?

More people had assembled, and Cor could see the figures of the rest of the Council join Dar at the front. He heard a sharp intake of breath, and suddenly Lord Shar was stumbling forwards, reaching for his elbow in an attempt at paternal guidance. “Sire, this—”

Cor turned sharply, snatching his arm out of the man’s grasp. “Do _not_ attempt to instruct me on this matter, Lord Shar,” he said, keeping his voice low enough for the others not to hear. “I do not forget that your own words very recently resembled those these traitors have uttered. Keep quiet if you do not want me to draw my own conclusions.”

Shar, too, retreated. Around them, Narnians had begun to gather, joining the people of Archenland. In the crowd, Cor saw the curious eyes of some fauns and a couple of Centaurs, still clad in armor. Soldiers in a war that they had not been forced to fight in, but had joined out of loyalty, in the name of Peridan and of the Four whom they had all once loved together.

How could he face them now, when his own people had turned against them?

What would his father do, were he in the same situation? The people of Narnia and Archenland had never turned against each other. Jealousy had been there, inevitably, even during the reign of the Four, but none would have dared to let it fester and become something more.

Was he at fault? Had he failed to keep the nation united? King Lune had a way of inspiring those around him to adopt his kindness, to share in his merriment and forgive every indiscretion. Even Lord Bar, according to Dar’s account, had ultimately been set free.

Perhaps he had not done enough; perhaps his own desperation had seeped into the mindsets of the people around them. More than these men, more than Shar or Hawken, it was he who had failed the nation the most—it was on his shoulders that rested the greatest responsibility.

But King Lune had never ruled in times of such despair, nor had he been forced to preserve the union between Northern countries.

He looked up at Corin, who was still breathing hard from the ride. But there was a strange calmness to his brother’s eyes, despite the rage and grief he knew was in them—absolute certainty.

He was King Cor, not King Lune. And these were different times.

He raised his voice so that all might hear.

“Archenland was built on the alliance between our countries, and for hundreds of years our friendship has been strong. In our moment of need, Narnia came to our aid, and if we live another day then we will repay her generosity tenfold, as long as we have arms to offer.” He took a deep breath, gazing down at the men. “In attacking King Peridan, you have attacked my own family. You have attacked our nation. You have committed the ultimate treason, and for this I sentence you to death.”

There were gasps in the crowd. The criminals flinched. Perhaps they had been expecting benevolent Lune to imprison them at Anvard for some years; perhaps they had believed Hawken would intercede in their favor. But this was a battlefield, and Cor was not his father.

“I will issue your punishment myself, once we are at Anvard,” he told them, and his voice was not shaking. The same certainty he had seen in Corin was in him, now, and he found his will was unmovable. He turned to look at the crowd.

“Any man found collaborating, or being in agreement with, the heinous acts committed today, shall meet death alongside these men,” he announced. His hand was on the hilt of his sword, and from the way the people looked at him, he realized that he must look imposing—standing tall in the clearing with the sun’s rays falling from directly above him. But for once, he did not feel the chaos of uncertainty whirling around him.

“I have given my life to Archenland, and in doing so, I have vowed to protect our sister nation, Narnia.”

As the guards took Peridan’s would-be assassins away, the people slowly retreated back to where they had been, keeping well away from the King. Cor met Corin’s glance as his twin accompanied the guards, his hands still fists at his sides. His brother gave him a short nod.

Taking a deep breath, Cor left the clearing and made his way towards his tent. But he soon came upon Darrin, who was still looking towards the clearing where Cor had issued his sentence. As Cor approached, Darrin nodded, but didn’t seem to be able to look him in the eyes.

There was not much else that could be said. “Do you disapprove?” Cor asked him.

Darrin did not speak immediately. In the shadow of the mountains, even his normally strong frame suddenly seemed wizened.

“No,” he said finally. “But I do not think I ever felt the loss of Cor, the Prince, as acutely as I do now.”

Cor did not know what to say to that.

When Darrin finally looked at him, the small, sad smile on his face gave way to grave conviction. Reaching out, he placed his hands on Cor’s shoulders; for a moment, not a subject gazing at a King, but a mentor looking upon a student who has surpassed him—with all the nostalgia and pain that entailed. “You have made a good King.”

The wall of determination that had held Cor’s will together moments ago was suddenly hit with a wave of emotion at Darrin’s words. But before he could say anything—and what would he say, even? What could words even convey, when the situation was so dire?—the thundering sound of hooves interrupted them, and a messenger suddenly appeared, swiftly dismounting from his horse. He was disheveled by the wind and held a small scroll tightly in his hand.

“Your Majesty,” he exclaimed, bowing as he rushed forwards. “A message.”

Cor frowned. “From who?”

The man’s eyes were bright as he lowered his voice and extended the scroll towards him. “From the Tisroc of Calormen, Sire.”

Heart pounding, Cor took it from him and opened it. He did not have to see the seal to know that the man was right; neither did he need to see the signature at the bottom of the message, so different from that of previous ones, to understand who it was, and what had happened, or how strange the predicament he now found himself in was, with two armies on either side and his pounding heart—now so intrinsically woven with someone else’s—trapped between them.

.

_I have had dreams of a lion and a fisherman’s son. You cannot deny that you recognized me—as I did you. I wish to meet with the King whose name was once Shasta._

_Aravis_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am the actual worst and I'm sooo sorry for the eight-month delay. I started college (at last! Hooray for taking three gap years!) and it totally destroyed my writing routine. But the year is ending now and if my calculations are right, we should only have about two more chapters to go (I realize that that might be surprising: they haven't even met properly yet! But I think I should be able to give you a cool ending with some closure). 
> 
> Again, if you're interested in a character list, it's [here](https://nasimwrites.tumblr.com/post/160402814232/the-tisroc-and-the-king-character-list). And please leave feedback if you have the time! This story has been occupying my thoughts for months and not being able to write it out has been killing me, so I would love to read your thoughts! Thanks for reading!


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